


Merry Christmas, Here's to Many More

by ItsADrizzit



Series: Deleted Scenes [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Party, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Friendship, Holidays, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mistletoe, Pining, Protectiveness, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-13 08:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit
Summary: Christian and Vincent both unintentionally give one another the exact Christmas gift they need.Or...Vincent is deep in his feelings and searching for a place to belong, Christian is trying to move on with his life even though he's not sure he wants to, and Toby's the friend we all need who tries to keep everyone from getting hurt by their bad decisions.Now featuring cake and drunken party antics.So look at me nowIt's finally Christmas and I'm homeHead indoors to get out of this weatherAnd I don't know how but the closest friends I've ever known are all insideSinging togetherThis work is part of a series of related works, but each can be read as a stand-alone story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I didn't get this out by Christmas like I intended. It was supposed to be a cute, fun, happy little fic that spun out of control and turned into something a bit more meaningful, I think. Honestly, I should come to expect that now.
> 
> There are a lot of feelings and a lot of emotion and a lot of everything, but I somehow managed to end this on a happy note. Sometimes, Christmas isn't all smiles and happiness and love; and sometimes, you find all those things despite the situation you're in.
> 
> Title is from the [Relient K song of the same name](https://youtu.be/buHF1-ZpBD4).

**24 December, 2017**

“Come back to mine for a bit?” Chris asked.

He shifted two of his shopping bags from one arm to the other, then handed a third to Ben, who loaded it into the back of his SUV.

Both of them were laden with snacks and drinks for the upcoming Christmas party at Jan’s house. Jan and Toby were taking care of most of the details, but Chris had been tasked with picking up all the food. He’d run into Ben on his way out of the training centre that afternoon, and Ben had offered to tag along since he needed to pick up a few last minute gifts.

The weather was as pleasant as weather could get in December in London; the sky a brilliant, uniform steel grey, mercifully free of the cold rain that tended to fall at this time of year. Still, Chris pulled up his collar against the wind and climbed gratefully into the car.

Ben slid behind the steering wheel. “Might as well. I’m certainly not doing anything.”

“Your family’s not in town?”

“My sister had some commitments at University all the way through yesterday. They’ll be in tomorrow and stay for a few days.”

Chris sank back against the smooth leather of his seat as Ben started the car and headed down the hill that led to Chris’s house. He’d be grateful for Ben’s company. He was slowly getting accustomed to life on his own, but the nights were still lonely sometimes and these days of morning training that left him with most of his afternoon and evening free tended to drag on and usually had him looking for company.

Toby had offered to stop by later that night, but Chris had declined the offer. Toby had spent enough time away from his own life and responsibilities in the last few months, sitting with Chris at all times of the day and night, sometimes just stopping by ‘on his way home from somewhere’ to see what Chris was doing. It wasn’t that Chris didn’t appreciate the gesture, it was more that the guilt of pulling his friends away from their own lives was starting to weigh on him.

Everyone had better things to do, and it was long past time for Chris to get on with his life. He’d been perfectly happy spending quiet nights alone in his house before Vincent had sailed in and swept him away, and he needed to get back to a place where he was comfortable in his own presence.

Not that he and Vincent never spoke, of course, but with the two hour time difference and their respective clubs heading into the busiest parts of the season, they hadn’t been able to connect through anything other than a brief email exchange or a short conversation over WhatsApp in weeks.

Their last face-to-face conversation, if staring at one another across a computer screen could be considered face-to-face, had been two and a half weeks ago when Vincent’s ill-planned Christmas gift had arrived in Istanbul. Beyond that, they hadn’t exchanged more than a few messages after Vincent’s injury later that week—Chris checking in and Vincent reassuring him that he was fine and it sounded worse than it really was.

Ben slid the car to as stop at the end of the narrow lane leading to Chris’s house. One of eight lining the cul-de-sac; hidden from street view by a sprawling communal garden lined with tall trees.

Chris stopped to retrieve two of the grocery bags from the back of Ben’s car, then rushed to the house and slid the key into the lock. Ben followed a few steps behind, both of them scrambling into the merciful warmth of the narrow front hallway the moment Chris shoved the door open.

They shed coats and scarves and gloves, hanging them on the hooks beside the door. Chris blew a hot breath into his closed fists, then turned away from the door and lifted the shopping bags from where he’d abandoned them in the entry

In the kitchen, Chris loaded most of the food into the fridge, keeping the drink bottles and boxes of snacks on the counter, while Ben set about making tea. Chris had taken to keeping tea in his cupboard just to have some to offer any guests that might stop by, but even after four and a half years in London he still hadn’t learned to prefer the taste over a decent cup of coffee.

“Meet you in there,” Chris said, pointing towards his living room, and Ben nodded.

Late afternoon light poured in the wide windows overlooking the back garden, despite the grey clouds, bathing the whole house in soft light. Behind him, the sound of Ben rattling about in his kitchen, pulling out tea, milk, sugar. Proper British, as he liked to say. More than comfortable on his own in this space.

Chris and Ben had become fast friends when Ben arrived at the club. They’d put in a lot of time together thanks to their partnership on the wing, and Chris had been drawn to Ben’s easy manner and carefree attitude. Never rattled and always game for whatever.

The two of them had connected over culture and shared experiences, something Chris hadn’t expected. Ben had played two years in the Danish youth system as a child before returning home to Wales, and they’d soon realised that they had almost certainly met on the pitch long before either of them had any inkling of where their lives would take them.

Ben had spent many evenings at Chris’s house—had been among the friends that had helped him pick it out, in fact—almost as regular a fixture in Chris’s life as Mousa, Jan, and Toby. Even so, Chris hadn’t seen much of Ben outside of training over the past year. His own fault, he knew. He’d been so caught up in whatever he was building—or pretending he wasn’t building—with Vincent that he’d unknowingly pushed most of his other friends to the sidelines in favour of nights alone with Vincent, curled on the sofa or tangled together in bed.

Now that he was back to spending nights on his own, he was thankful for his friends’ unwavering presence in his life. Even Coco, with his constant energy and movement and the string of bizarre hobbies he kept trying to foist onto Chris in the interest of alleviating boredom, had been invaluable as Chris sought distraction from his life.

He’d never told any of them about Vincent, although Mousa, Jan, and Toby had all figured things out on their own, long before Chris himself had managed to. To the rest, he’d never offered any explanation as to why he’d been so distant and absent for so long, and bless them, they hadn’t asked. Just happily slotted back into his life as though nothing had changed between them.

“Chris, mate,” Ben called from behind him, and Chris paused in the doorway, turning to look over his shoulder towards the kitchen. He leaned against the doorframe, back to the living room.

Ben looked up from the counter, mug in one hand, the other poised in the cabinet above his head. “Don’t suppose you want one?”

Chris pulled a face, but his hands were still stinging from the chill of the London winter and he honestly wouldn’t mind something hot to hold, though he’d have preferred a hot chocolate or a nice cup of rich, dark coffee.

“Why not? Better than nothing. Probably.”

“Wanker.”

“Honestly,” Chris said, turning back towards his living room. “You might as well just pour the water and leave out the tea for all I—oh.”

Chris’s breath caught in his throat. His heart seizing for the briefest of moments. Words dying in his mouth as he stared into the room towards the figure sprawled out across his sofa, brown hair blending into the coffee coloured leather it was resting on.

He closed his eyes, knowing that when he opened them this would all be an illusion. Long-standing after effects of a lack of sleep, although he’d finally started getting back into a routine over the past few months.

Vincent was in Turkey; a continent in between them. Chris had come to terms with that. He couldn’t be here, in London, casually dozing on Chris’s sofa as though it were a perfectly normal place for him to be.

Chris willed himself to open his eyes. To blink away the illusion, drift towards the sofa himself and wait for Ben to bring him some tea. Grip the warm mug in his frozen hands and sip at it politely, wishing it tasted like anything more than slightly bitter, fragrant water, but grateful for the warmth.

He’d flick on the television, he and Ben laughing over whatever mindless show they’d decided on watching until they got hungry and relocated to the dining room for dinner. Just another evening in London. Meaningless. Mundane. Routine. Comfortable, or at least, starting to be.

When he finally eased his eyes open, he was greeted by a soft smile. Bright white teeth. Dimples winking beneath rich chestnut scruff. Brown eyes fixed on Chris. Previously tanned skin starting to fade to winter pale, though still tinged a soft gold.

“ _Hallo, Christiaan_.”

Voice low and rough from sleep. Words barely above a whisper, but ringing in Chris’s ears like a bell. Echoing through the room. Reverberating from every surface.

Chris grabbed at the doorframe to steady himself, turning the corner to slide into the armchair positioned next to the wide windows.

“Alright, Chris?” Ben’s voice from the kitchen, and Chris wanted to reply, but he didn’t have the words. Nothing in his brain but ‘ _Vincent, Vincent, Vincent_.’

Breathe, Chris. Another breath. In and out.

Eyes trained on Vincent. Vincent’s eyes trained back on him.

“I…” Chris said, but the rest of the sentence died on his tongue because, yeah, he really wasn’t sure he was alright, but what was he going to say?

“Is someone here? Sounded like you were talking with someone,” Ben’s voice grew closer as footsteps approached from the kitchen, and Chris dragged his eyes away from Vincent to where Ben was slipping past the dining room table and, oh…Ben. And Vincent.

His legs kicked into action before his brain and he propelled himself to his feet. He flashed Vincent a wide-eyed glance and flicked his head towards the door that led to the stairs up to his bedroom before he spun on his heels and rounded the corner into the dining room. “I ummm… We should…let’s sit in here for a while.”

“Alright, mate,” Ben said. “A bit formal for sitting around with a cuppa, if you ask me, but it’s your house.”

“No,” Chris said. “I mean, just…I never use this room. I have it and it’s nice, with all the windows and the garden and all and I just…I thought I should use it for once.”

Chris lifted the mugs from Ben and dropped them onto the table then pulled out one of the chairs and fell into it, gesturing to the chair beside him, one that faced out the window and away from the living room.

“Chris, what…?” Ben started, but didn’t finish, slipping into the proffered chair beside Chris.

Chris sipped at his tea, hoping Ben didn’t see his involuntary grimace at the taste. Deep breaths. Try to act normal, Chris, nothing out of the ordinary here. Certainly not a former teammate, who isn’t even supposed to be in the country, let alone Chris’s house, laying across his sofa as though he lived here.

He slid his phone out of his pocket, and started typing out a message. To tell Vincent to wait for him upstairs and he’d meet him as soon as getting rid of Ben wouldn’t look too suspicious.

It wasn’t that Chris wanted to hide him away, it was just—how was he going to explain any of this to Ben? What Vincent was doing here. How he knew the alarm code. Why he had a spare key to Chris’s house so he could come in and make himself at home whenever he liked.

Beside him, Ben sipped at his tea, eyes closed, swishing it around in his mouth for a second before swallowing it down and letting out a sigh. These British lads and their tea. Although, when he considered it, Chris rather thought he understood. There weren’t many ills in his life that a good strong cup of coffee couldn’t cure. He figured it was the same for the Brits and their tea.

“You sure you’re alright?” Ben asked him, his voice soft, but laced with concern. “Because one minute it’s all yeah, come in, make some tea, let’s hang about, and the next you’re miles away, staring at your phone and looking like you’re trying not to pass out.”

Chris dropped his phone to the table and clutched his own teacup in his hand, closing his eyes and savoring the heat creeping into his fingertips. Steam moistening his skin as he lifted it to his lips, the tea’s floral fragrance filling his nose.

The buzz on the wood of the table made him jump, tea sloshing out of the mug onto his hand and burning his skin. Red flecks already starting to appear as Chris set his mug down and reached for his phone.

Two messages from Vincent.

‘ _Okay…I’ll get the bed warm.’_

_‘Don’t take too long, though. I might start without you. *winky face emoji*’_

Chris’s breath caught in his throat and he choked, exploding into a fit of coughing and wheezing. Desperately trying to suck air into his lungs. His throat burning. He gasped and choked for a bit, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, before let out one final, forceful cough and sucked in a deep breath, chest heaving.

“Alright, mate?” Ben asked. He was poised on the edge of his chair and staring at Chris with wide eyes.

“Yeah, good just…” Chris closed his eyes and tipped his head back, trying to find some plausible explanation for his sudden shift in behaviour. Because Ben was a generally good bloke, but there were some things you just don’t talk about with a teammate, no matter how good of a friend they might be. Chris was pretty sure ‘I really need to go upstairs and let our estranged teammate fuck me senseless, be back when I’m done’ was one of those things.

Instead, all he managed was, “Sorry. Swallowed wrong. You know…”

Ben still stared at him, eyes narrowed, scanning Chris from head to toe.

He gestured to the phone still clutched in Chris’s hand. “Don’t mind me if you need to make a call or anything.”

Chris dropped his phone back to the table and shook his head. “Oh. That. Just…something I need to take care of. Sort of, last minute unexpected thing that popped up. You know how it is. So, I guess I’m not as free tonight as I thought, sorry.”

Ben frowned for a second, then straightened up. “Right, shall I come with you then? I’m happy to do it. I can drive.”

“Uhh…” Chris said, continuing to be as eloquent as possible as he tried to kickstart his brain into thinking about anything other than Vincent lying, probably mostly naked, in his bed mere metres above their heads. “No, I…don’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” Ben said, flashing Chris a grin. “Whatever it is, it has to beat sitting around my flat alone with re-heated dinner.”

“It’s…” Chris said, stretching out the word as long as possible to give his brain time to catch up. “A…solo mission, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

“Mysterious,” Ben said. He downed the rest of his tea in one go and stood up, chair legs scraping against the wood floor. The sound jarring against the quiet of the house. “Right, I should go then. Leave you to your…mystery errands.”

“I am sorry. I was looking forward to hanging out, really. I just…I don’t know. I’m…sort of out of it, today, you know. I’ll go do this and…then I’ll probably just head to bed. Try to get some rest and snap out of…whatever this is.”

“I hope you’re not coming down with something. Lot of matches coming up. We need you at full health.”

Chris shook his head, but didn’t spare Ben an eyeroll. “I appreciate your deep levels of concern for my well-being, but no. I’m fine. Just…I don’t know, a bit overwhelmed with all the holidays and errands and party planning, I guess. It’s not really my thing. I just need to relax a bit and I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

“See you tomorrow, yeah? Call me if you need anything.” Ben said, fixing him with another look. Vaguely appraising and laced with concern. And if Ben wanted to think Chris’s sudden rush of odd behaviour was because he was coming down with the flu or something, who was Chris to stop him. It was certainly better than Ben finding out the truth.

“Yeah.” Chris set one hand on Ben’s shoulder, and Ben stared down at it for a second before stepping backwards towards the door.

“Get some rest.” Ben said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be well.”


	2. Chapter 2

Vincent crept up the staircase as quietly as he was able. Ben wouldn’t be able to see him directly from the kitchen, thankfully, and as long as he was careful to avoid the spots where the stairs creaked the loudest he should be able to make it to the bedroom undetected.

He’d meant to surprise Christian. To be there waiting when he came home. And he had surprised him, he supposed. At the very least, he’d startled him into a near panic attack judging by the way the colour had drained from Christian’s face as he clutched at the door frame. Eyes wide. Mouth open as he stared into the room at Vincent before rushing away.

Vincent had arrived in London a few hours before Christian had returned home. He’d caught the first flight he could out of Istanbul and landed just before eleven in the morning.

In the taxi, the address had rolled off his tongue as though it were his own and he’d settled back into the seat and watched the sites of London rush past him. Trees bare. Sky the colour of iron. Everything around him the bleak, barren greys and browns of early winter.

The afternoon traffic crawled along. Motorways jammed with people trying to get home to family, making their way out of town or heading into the city from the distant suburbs.

“Home for Christmas?” The driver had asked, and Vincent couldn’t help his wide smile.

Not a trace of hesitation before he said, “Yes. Home.”

He’d rung the bell when he arrived, because no matter how many nights he’d spent there, this wasn’t his house. Christian had always maintained a careful distance between them, some small boundary to keep them from crashing too closely into one another, and Vincent had respected that. He’d given Christian as much space as he needed or wanted. Followed Christian’s lead and took whatever he was willing to give.

After standing on the front step for a few moments, he’d pulled out his phone to send Christian a message. ‘ _Hi, thought I’d stop by your place. When will you return_?’ but he’d stopped himself. It was Christmas and what better way to celebrate than with a surprise.

Instead, he rifled through his bag, the key to Christian’s house tucked up beside the one to Vincent’s flat in Istanbul, one of four keys on the ring Vincent carried with him everywhere. He crossed his fingers that Christian hadn’t changed the code to the security system while he was away.

Inside, he was engulfed in familiar sights and smells, and he set his bags down, leaned against the door, and let himself breathe for a moment.

Christian’s house was bright and blond and airy—very Scandinavian. Very Christian.

Wood floors polished to a sheen. White walls lined with colourful pictures in wooden frames. Photos of Copenhagen and Amsterdam—places Christian had lived or visited intermingled with art pieces gifted to him by various friends and family.

To the right, a glass door out to the patio; weak winter light filtering in over the wide table where he and Christian had spent many mornings sipping coffee and watching the sun creep above the trees.

To the left, the stairs leading up to the first floor bedrooms, and past those, the living room.

The house with its open plan and brightness, strewn about with the cheery reminders of a life among friends. A sharp contrast from Vincent’s own flat in Istanbul—all cramped corners and chipboard laminate furniture. Dark shadows and odd angles. Everything with a crammed in feel, right down to the small cream-coloured sofa. Absolutely none of it his.

Vincent dragged his suitcase up the stairs to the top of the landing, then went down to retrieve the rest of his things—the black backpack he’d taken to carrying everywhere and a large, paper-wrapped, rectangular package tied with a simple blue ribbon.

He’d had the taxi driver stop on the way in so he could retrieve it from the shop not far from Christian’s house. Vincent had originally planned to have it delivered, but once he’d made up his mind to spend Christmas in London instead of in Málaga with his family, he’d called to see if he could pick it up instead.

The perfect gift, he hoped, or at least something Christian would find useful.

Upstairs, Vincent had turned first towards the spare bedroom that Christian referred to as his office, but mainly served to hold all the boxes and random bits of furniture that Christian didn’t know what to do with. He’d stash the gift behind something in there for now and move it downstairs tomorrow morning.

Careful not to rip the paper or bang into any of the doorframes, Vincent lifted the package—not overly heavy, but awkward to carry—through the door and set it down. He needed to find some spot to hide it where he’d be able to easily retrieve it, but it wouldn’t be too conspicuous should Christian actually decide to use this room for once.

He looked left towards the small desk beneath the window that held Christian’s laptop and a printer—the one area of the room cleared of most of the clutter, although a few plastic bins were tucked neatly beneath the desk. Not that side then.

A glance to the right, and Vincent’s face broke into a wide grin.

Abandoning the package against the door, Vincent rushed forward into the room and launched himself onto familiar grey fabric—pressing his face hard against it. Plush softness with just the right amount of texture to keep you from sliding around. He let out a sigh as he closed his eyes and let the feeling surround him for a few moments.

Cushions cool beneath him. Soft and springy, but with a still familiar groove worn into them from all the nights Vincent had spent tucked up into his favourite spot.

He’d bought this sofa nearly four and a half years ago with his first paycheck from Almere City. Had slipped it into his apartment among the generic Ikea furniture. Something of his own. Something to make him finally feel like an adult.

From Almere, it had moved with him across Amsterdam to Haarlem. Now a player for AZ. New club, new city, new home—although never straying too far from Amsterdam. Still surrounded by an apartment full of furniture that wasn’t his own, save this one piece that belonged to him.

His mother had offered to sell it for him when he’d moved to London, but Vincent had declined. Another new club and another new life. He’d paid a frankly ridiculous fee to have the sofa shipped to his new flat in north London, but it had been worth it to bring this one piece of home along with him, and Vincent had been grateful every night to return home to a familiar comfort as he struggled to adjust to life in the Premier League and in England.

When he’d moved to Istanbul, however, he couldn’t see the point. Back in a year—or onward to somewhere else—the distance so far. He’d asked Christian if he could keep it, at least until Vincent knew where he might end up, and Christian had agreed.

Still, Vincent hadn’t expected to find it here, out in the open like this with a stack of blankets on one end and a spare pillow nestled into the other. If anything, he’d assumed Christian would have directed the movers to shove it into the corner inside its slipcover where it could collect months of dust until Vincent returned to claim it.

Vincent let himself roll to the side, and he couldn’t help another smile. The smell of citrus and mint filled his nose, Christian’s scent on the pillow even here. He turned to bury his face into the back of the sofa and smelled the hints of Tom Ford, overpowered by the scent of his own cologne—lavender and citrus and spice and wood. Still lingering after all this time. Christian’s smell blending together here with his own in the way their shared spaces had before Vincent left.

He lay that way for a while, eyes closed, sucking in deep breaths through his nose. The way the two scents mingled making Vincent feel safe and warm all over. He ran a hand over the fabric and buried his face in deeper, surrounding himself with the textures and the smells and the feel of what he was starting to realise was home.

Eventually, he’d pried himself off the sofa, of course. For one thing, he needed to stash away Christian’s gift, tucking it into the wedge of space between the back of the sofa and the wall. For another, who knew how long it would take Christian to make his way upstairs once he got home. As much as Vincent would love to strip down to nothing and crawl into Christian’s bed—laying seductively sprawled across it whenever Christian finally dragged himself up the stairs for the evening—he knew better than to think he could be that patient.

Vincent stashed his suitcase and backpack in the corner of Christian’s bedroom and headed downstairs to see if, by chance, Christian had any food.

He didn’t, really, just a few bananas, some oranges, and a mostly empty bag of bread, but Vincent had made do with that before settling onto the sofa to wait.

Which is where Christian had found him…and then immediately proceeded to shoo him away up the stairs so he could have tea with Ben.

Vincent didn’t know what he’d been expecting when he turned up unannounced at the front door, but it certainly wasn’t Ben Davies laughing and making tea while Christian put away the groceries they’d purchased together.

Back upstairs—and if he’d known this was how things would go he would have just stayed settled in on his sofa—Vincent crept through the hallway in his sock feet, avoiding the loose floorboards that he knew would creak and give his presence away. He turned down the hallway towards the main bedroom.

Light streamed in the wide windows from outside. The whole room bright and open and airy to match the rest of the house. Walls here hung with more framed prints of spaces from Christian’s life. Amsterdam in winter, looking down the canal. Brown brick cafes lining the streets, lights twinkling blue and red in the water.

Vincent felt a twinge in his chest at the sight of the photo. It wasn’t so long ago now that he and Christian had strolled along that very street in the early stillness of an October morning after a sleepless night spent tangled up in one another’s arms.

Christian turning up at the Arena. There to see Vincent at his absolute worst—drained and dripping wet and gutted beyond measure. Another day of failure and all Vincent had wanted was to sink into a shower and wash the shame of the day away. Instead, he’d got Jasper Cillessen, of all people, smirking at him as though any of them had anything to be happy about and dragging him down the tunnel. Then, he’d turned the corner to see a striking profile—long, straight nose, high forehead tucked up under a ridiculous beanie, clad in a blue Netherlands warm up that was a size too big for him.

It had taken Vincent a few seconds to register who was standing in front of him. Because it couldn’t be Christian. Not there. Not in the midst of all of that.

But it had been. Christian flying in just for him. To lend his support and to wrap him up and kiss away some of the pain and remorse and regret. One night together—a few stolen hours—and the flight the next day had been painful, although not for the reasons Vincent had originally thought. Less about crawling back, tail between his legs, to his exile in a place he didn’t belong, and more dragging himself away from home once more. Across the world and away from everything he loved.

He flopped onto Christian’s bed just as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Rolling onto his back, he slid the phone out and flicked on the screen. A message from Christian.

‘ _I’ll meet you upstairs as soon as I finish up with Ben._ ’

Vincent let out a groan. He hadn’t seen Christian in months, so what harm would a few more minutes apart do in the grand scheme of things, but now that he was here and Christian was here all Vincent wanted to do was rush downstairs, wrap Christian in his arms, and kiss him until they were both breathless. Not hide away upstairs for however long it took Christian to finish his afternoon of domesticity with Ben.

And that wasn’t fair, Vincent knew.

Ben was one of Christian’s best friends; had been since long before Vincent arrived and pulled Christian into his bed and away from his former life. The three of them had spent many a night hanging out—video games, movies, and nights out in London.

Still, Vincent couldn’t help the little pangs of jealousy that always seemed to well up inside of him on the rare occasions that Christian had chosen a night out with Ben over yet another evening spent doing absolutely nothing in Vincent’s apartment.

Now—grocery shopping and tea, as though this were an everyday occurrence. And perhaps it was, for all Vincent knew. It wasn’t as though Vincent had any say in the matter, really.

Christian had his own life, and Vincent had been the one who turned up unannounced. What had he been expecting? He should be glad Christian wasn’t spending every evening sitting around his house alone and miserable the way Vincent often was.

He slid backwards against the cool, smoothness of the duvet until his head ran into the pillow. Instinctively laying on the left side of the bed, he noted. His side, or at least the one he’d always slept on. He pressed his face into the pillow, and the crisp, fresh scent of detergent filled his nostrils. Pillow fluffed with disuse, not even the hint of a depression where a head would ordinarily rest.

Tucked up once more in Christian’s enormous bed—enough space for the two of them to sprawl into it without touching, although they’d rarely slept more than a few centimetres apart, both of them huddled in the centre, curled together, Christian fitting in to Vincent’s curves as though he’d been made to be there.

He squinted up at his phone screen and banged out two messages in return. A bit more suggestive than they needed to be, perhaps, but Vincent had spent the entire flight from Istanbul trying not to think of all ways he wanted to wrap himself up in Christian’s body, and he was getting a bit impatient.

Seconds dragged out into long minutes, and Vincent found himself restless. The bed too big and the room too cold, despite the heating system.

He rolled out of the bed and crept back down the hallway into the spare room and his sofa. He eased himself down this time, mindful of the springs in the centre that liked to creak and groan if you hit them wrong. Once he’d slid himself to a seated position, he flipped his legs up and lay back, head resting on the pillow, staring up at the weak silver light dancing on the ceiling and surrounded once more in his and Christian’s mingled scents.

Vincent had almost floated into sleep when snatches of low conversation drifted up the stairs. He propped himself up on his elbows and strained to listen, still only managing to catch a few words here and there.

Ben’s soft, lilting voice “…see you tomorrow…call me if you need…”

The door slammed shut, then Vincent heard footsteps on the stairs, and he wriggled into a seated position, propped against the arm rest, his legs still sprawled in front of him.

“Vince?” Christian called, voice ringing up the stairwell, echoing off the wood and plaster.

Christian beelined for the bedroom, bypassing the room where Vincent lay without so much as a glance.

“Vince, where are you?” Soft Dutch, slurred around the edges. Familiar sounds of home.

“ _Hier_ ,” Vincent responded, and Christian’s face appeared around the corner a moment later.

“I should have known,” he said with an affectionate smile. “Do you two need a few minutes alone?”

Vincent returned Christian’s smile then slid closer to the back of the sofa, patting the space beside him. “Not at all. Plenty of room for a third.”

“Oh, no,” Christian said, wagging one finger at Vincent. “I didn’t spend fifteen minutes choking down a cup of tea and trying to find a polite way to get Ben to leave that didn’t involve telling him I needed to go upstairs and kiss someone so hard they’d be trying to catch their breath for a week just to share you with this sofa.”

He held a hand out to Vincent and stared down at him. “Get up. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it in the bed like proper, civilised humans.”

“There is nothing civilised about what I want to do to you,” Vincent said, his voice coming out low and rough, desire rolling over him, all thoughts of anything that wasn’t Christian’s skin on his own now fleeing from his mind.

He let Christian pull him to his feet, and in an instant found himself wrapped in Christian’s solid warmth, hot press of Christian’s mouth against his own. Christian’s tongue sliding against his, filling his mouth with the bitter tang of tea.

Their noses slid against one another and Christian’s scruff—more than he’d usually allowed to grow in, closer to a full beard now, Vincent noted—scraped against Vincent’s skin. Both of them panting and gasping into the millimetres of space between them.

Skin against skin, surrounded by Christian. Wrapped tight in his warm embrace, Vincent’s face buried in Christian’s neck, breathing in Christian’s scent, Christian’s voice in his ear. Something that he hadn’t even known was coiled tight inside of him releasing bit by bit as Christian’s hands slid over his body.

Vincent made a noise of protest as Christian’s mouth left his, only for Christian’s tongue to swipe at Vincent’s neck, just below his ear. A shudder of desire rolled through his entire body at the sensation, a groan of pleasure ripping from his throat. Vision going black at the edges as all the blood in his body rushed to his groin.

Christian’s thigh slipped between Vincent’s legs, and Vincent ground into it, the outline of Christian’s cock solid against his thigh, his own cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. Christian’s body now trembling in his arms.

Vincent’s hands slid down to the waistband of Christian’s jeans, thumbs hooking into the elastic of his boxers, and he felt Christian’s breath hitch before warm hands circled his wrists, holding them steady.

Vincent froze, ready to protest. He eased his eyes open and raised them to meet Christian’s, staring straight into wide black pupils rimmed by the slightest hint of blue. Heavy lidded and dark with need.

He started to pull back, but Christian’s hands tightened around his wrists, holding him tight.

“ _Christiaan?_ ” Vincent breathed Christian’s name into the centimetres between them.

Breath in. Breath out. Hot and humid against Vincent’s cheek.

“ _Niet hier_ ,” Christian gasped out, finally pulling himself away from Vincent, his grip on Vincent’s hands never loosening as he stepped towards the door.

“Bedroom.” Voice ragged at the edges, none of the quiet calm, but everything about the sound so very Christian. The Christian that Vincent knew so intimately. The voice of Christian coming apart around him.

They half ran, half stumbled the few metres down the hall to the bedroom, Christian letting go of Vincent’s hands long enough for both of them to strip hoodies and then t-shirts over their heads along the way, leaving a trail of discarded clothing down the hallway.

Christian reached the bed first and yanked Vincent down on top of him. Hands grasping, skin dragging across skin. Tongues slipping together, slick and hot. Vincent’s head spinning with it all.

Fingers at the waistband of his jeans, ripping at the button and tugging the zipper until they loosened enough for Christian to slide them down. Vincent lifted his hips, both of them wriggling around until Vincent’s legs kicked free.

He pulled Christian closer, tongue tracing a line up Christian’s throat. Pulse a strong, uneven beat beneath it. Sweat slicked skin against his own. Shoving at buttons and zippers and elastic. Christian’s skin burning hot beneath his hands.

Breath in. Breath out. Trying to remember how his fingers worked. Eyes fluttering closed as Christian’s cock rubbed harder against his own. A low moan in Vincent’s ears and he honestly didn’t know if it had come from him or Christian.

Christian's body spread out naked beneath him. Weak afternoon light glinting off winter pale skin. Vincent kissed his way down the lean, tight muscles of Christian’s torso, light dusting of golden hairs tickling at his nose. Strong, defined thighs beneath Vincent’s hands. Vincent’s tongue swiping at all the spots he knew would make Christian gasp and scream and shake beneath him.

A pause as he reached the coarse hair of Christian’s groin. Skin inside Christian’s thighs soft as silk against Vincent’s cheek.

Ragged, stuttering cries filled his ears, a mingling of three languages, and Vincent didn’t need to speak any of them to know what Christian wanted.

One hand on Christian’s hip, sharp jut of bone pressing into Vincent’s palm.

Christian’s cock hot with blood and throbbing beneath Vincent’s tongue as he slid it along the length.

“Vincent,” Christian gasped, voice a low, breathy rasp, and Vincent wrapped his mouth around Christian’s cock, his mouth now filled with bitter salt. He bobbed his head, dipping down a little deeper with each movement, rigid flesh pressing on his tongue and scraping against his throat.

Christian’s body stiffened before he thrust his hips upward, making Vincent’s eyes water as he choked and sucked in a breath through his nose, his vision going black at the edges.

Bone of Christian’s hip sharp against Vincent’s palm. Trying to hold Christian steady, although Christian writhed beneath him.

Hands at his hair, grasping and pulling and shoving at his head. The air filled with Christian’s cries, but Vincent didn’t register any of it until, “Vincent… _stop_.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chris’s body contorted in pleasure with every scrape of stubble across his skin. Every swipe of tongue or sharp press of fingers sending shuddering waves through him. Even after so many months away, Vincent still knew the exact spots that would make Chris unravel.

Vincent trailed kisses down Chris’s torso. Nipping and sucking and lapping across his chest and stomach, his hands digging into Chris’s muscles, tracing the lines of Chris’s body. Everything feeling simultaneously familiar yet new all over again.

So many times over the past few months, Chris had lay in this bed, eyes closed, skimming his own hands across his body. His cock in his hand, Vincent’s face in his mind, desperate to remember the feel of Vincent’s hands on him.

Nothing he’d managed on even the best of those nights was anything compared to Vincent’s warmth surrounding him now, hands and teeth and tongue against his skin, the smell of sweat and sex filling the air around them.

Scratch of Vincent’s beard against the delicate skin of Chris’s thighs before his tongue swiped hot and wet and oh, so exquisite up the underside of Chris’s cock, making Chris’s body tremble and shake, his breath huffing out in ragged, stuttering gasps. Searching for words. Something. Anything. All three languages he knew scattering from his mind and dissolving on his tongue.

A ringing in Chris’s ears, shrill and sharp, but he hardly noticed the sound as Vincent’s mouth closed around him—swallowing half his length down in one swift movement. Chris’s vision blurring at the edges, everything inside him hot and tight.

Unable to stop his hips bucking upward. Vincent’s hands sinking into his skin as he pressed Chris tighter against the mattress. Vincent his anchor. Holding him down even as he took Chris apart piece by piece.

His ears ringing once more, the sound now mingling with the surge of his pulse pounding through his skull. His whole body on a knife edge, and how could he ever have thought anything he could do to himself might be a suitable substitute for this?

Chris squirmed against Vincent, desperate to hold himself together against the surge of pleasure rolling over his body.

He wanted to push, shove up into Vincent’s mouth and lose himself in the white hot pleasure of Vincent’s mouth around his cock until they both collapsed onto the bed, soaked through with sweat, but he also wanted this feeling to last forever, for the rest of time. Vincent’s hot breath against his skin, his entire body buzzing and humming.

Far away, as though calling to him through a tunnel filled with water, the sound of Chris’s name drifted in, and Chris’s eyes flew open as his mind found purchase.

Not Vincent’s voice. Vincent’s mouth otherwise occupied; twisting and sliding along Chris’s cock, making his breath hitch and his body shudder.

“ _Godverdamme_ …Vincent…fuck.” Shaping the words was a challenge, but Chris dug deep and pushed them out. His voice broke halfway through, the sound coming out in a breathless huff and he sucked air into his lungs and tried again.

“Vincent.”

Vincent’s tongue slid down the length of his cock once more and Chris pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from screaming as he rode out the wave of arousal. Vision going white at the edges and if Chris didn’t stop him now they would both be in trouble, but oh god Chris never wanted him to stop.

Deep breath. Hold it. Hands pushing at Vincent now, grasping at his too short hair, but Vincent was too far gone and Chris should be too.

His voice, once he found it was ragged and raw.

“Vincent… _Stop_.”

A beat and Vincent froze. He flicked a glance up at Chris, the weak light emphasising the shadows of his dimples beneath the scruff on his cheeks, his mouth still filled with Chris’s cock.

Before Chris could reach down to stroke Vincent’s face and tell him he was sorry, and would he please keep going, thank you very much, because everything he was doing felt so amazing and Chris never wanted him to stop doing it, Vincent rolled to the side and off of Chris.

Movements slow, as though he were waking from a dream, lips dark and wet with saliva and precum as he slid backwards.

Chris let out an involuntary hiss as cold air hit sensitive skin.

Beside him, Vincent huffed out a breath. “Chris…what…?”

He lay on his side, chest heaving, still staring up at Chris with dark, glassy eyes. His eyelashes darkened with tears from his exertions. Chris wanted nothing more than to lean down and kiss them away. To curl beside Vincent and tell him he was sorry and the last thing he ever wanted to do was leave this bed.

“ _Christiaan, waar zit je?_ ” Toby’s voice echoed up the stairwell, and Chris rolled away from Vincent and scrambled to his feet.

“ _Wacht even,_ Toby.”

A pause, then. “ _Waat doe je_?”

“Nothing anymore, apparently,” Vincent muttered with a roll of his eyes, voice still breathless.

Chris fixed him with a warning glare, but quickly softened it. Vincent had every right to be upset right now.

“Sorry. I…had better go see what he wants.”

Vincent raised his eyebrows, eyes scanning up and down Chris’s naked body. “Like that?”

Chris let out a stream of curses in three languages under his breath and dropped to a crouch, rummaging through the clothing strewn about the floor beside the bed until his fingers hooked into something that felt like denim. He yanked the jeans free and reached down to flip the leg right side in.

Behind him, Vincent made a noise of protest and said, “Those are…” but he was cut off by another bellow up the stairwell from Toby.

“Does everyone on the team have a key to your house?” Vincent asked.

“No.” Chris leaned down to press a chaste kiss to Vincent’s mouth, but stepped away before Vincent could pull him down to the bed again. “Just Mousa, Jan, and Toby, although I’m starting to regret that decision.”

He slipped one leg into the jeans while hopping on the other towards the door, then leaned against the doorframe to do up the zipper—he was still half hard and not wearing any underwear, a recipe for disaster if he didn’t proceed with caution.

Even after he’d fastened the button, the crisp denim slid low on his hips, the fabric pooling around his ankles. Fabulous, these were definitely not his jeans. Nothing like trying to have a conversation with your best mate while you were shirtless and wearing someone else’s trousers.

Chris slid toward the stairs, hand firmly wrapped in the thick denim waistband of Vincent’s jeans to hold them up. Halfway down the staircase he skidded on the extra fabric and would have tumbled the rest of the way down on his ass had he not managed to grab hold of the railing. Wouldn’t that be great. At best, he’d have ended up sprawled at Toby’s feet mourning the loss of whatever pride he still had. At worst, he’d have broken a leg or torn up his knee and had to explain to the gaffer that he was out for the rest of the season because he hadn’t taken the time to get dressed properly after Toby interrupted the first blow job he’d had since October.

“ _Christiaan,_ what the hell?”

Toby stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded across his chest, looking for all the world like a father who’d just arrived home to find out his son had crashed the brand new family car into a lamp post.

“I should be asking you that,” Chris said. “You’re the one who barged into my house without warning and started making demands.”

“I rang the bell. Multiple times. And I called you, but you didn’t answer.”

“My phone is in the dining room. What do you want?”

Toby’s eyes scanned him slowly head to toe, then back up. “What are you wearing? Or, more specifically, not wearing?”

“ _For fanden_ , Toby, I grabbed the first thing I could find. Because I was  _in bed_.”

“Since when do you own jeans that don’t even stay up on their own?”

“Since when do you care what I’m wearing in my own house?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Toby asked. “It’s not even four pm and you’re in bed. Ben said you asked him over then while he was making tea you got some messages and the next thing he knew you were shoving him out the door.”

“And he called you about it?” Chris asked.

“He thought it had something to do with the party and wondered if he could help at all. But none of us had messaged you, so I thought I’d better come over and make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine, Toby,” Chris said. “Great. Never better.” Not a lie for once, or at least it wouldn’t have been had Toby not pulled him away from what he’d been doing.

“So…Vincent didn’t message you?”

“I never said that,” Chris said. “I said I was fine.”

“How about some food?” Toby asked. “I’ve been helping the kids hang Christmas decorations all night and I could use a break.”

Chris risked a quick glance towards his bedroom. “I’m…not hungry. Plus I don’t actually have any food save what Ben and I picked up for tomorrow.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Toby grabbed ahold of Chris’s arm and started to lead him towards the kitchen, but Chris pulled away.

“Can I…let me go get dressed or something.”

“Since when do I care what you’re wearing in your own house?” Toby asked, his tone mocking, and Chris rolled his eyes.

“Just…give me a minute, okay?”

Chris turned to head up the stairs, once again winding his hand into the fabric of Vincent’s jeans and tugging them upward. Toby’s footsteps thudded on the stairs behind him and Chris spun around.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming with you. Or are you just going to leave me standing around in your entryway.”

“Go make food if that’s what you want,” Chris said. “You know where everything is. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

‘I don’t mind waiting. I told you. I’ve just come from three hours of tree decorating and sing-a-long with a two-year-old. I’ve got all day.”

“Just…stay here. I’ll…be right back.” Chris held up a hand and tried to peer up the stairway, hoping Vincent was managing to stay out of Toby’s sightline.

Toby leaned across Chris to yell up the stairs. “Vincent. Aren’t you going to come say hello?”

“What?” Chris’s words spilled out in a rush. “Toby, I…what are you…?”

Toby shook his head, then fixed Chris with a stare, eyebrows raised. “Chris, do you honestly think coming downstairs shirtless, wearing jeans that don’t fit, with your hair a mess, and bruises across your torso isn’t an obvious sign of exactly what you’ve been doing?”

Chris sighed. For fuck’s sake, when did he become the sort of person who hid his boyfriend away in his bedroom like a teenager trying to sneak someone into his parents’ house? It wasn’t as though Toby didn’t know about his relationship with Vincent. Besides, they’d all find out Vincent was in town when he showed up with Chris at the party tomorrow.

“Yeah, okay. Fine. Vincent’s here. He flew in this afternoon to surprise me. We were…just…uhh…saying hello…as it were.” Chris choked out the last sentence with a cough. He felt the tips of his ears burning hot, slow flush spreading down his face and neck and into his chest, and you’re a grown man, Christian, not some virginal, virtuous child.

“Ahhh, “ Toby said.”’Truth will out’ as the English like to say. Vincent?”

Chris heard shuffling from the bedroom behind him and then, “I’m…not exactly…I should probably not come down there right now.”

“Why not?” Toby asked. “Secret’s out and all that.”

“Uhh…because I can’t find my underwear and Chris is wearing my jeans.”

“Oh my god.” Chris buried his head in his hands, his face flushing even hotter. “Toby, go wait in the living room, we’ll be down in a minute.”

He climbed to his feet and managed to negotiate the remaining stairs up to his bedroom without slipping on his too long jeans. Vincent was perched on the edge of the bed facing the door, still completely naked.

“What the hell is going on, Chris?”

“I wish I knew.”

“No. I mean it.” Vincent’s voice soft, but firm. “I flew all the way here to spend time with you and I’ve seen you for what, ten uninterrupted minutes? First it’s Ben and shopping and tea, and you hate tea. Then Toby’s here demanding to know what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. It’s just…”

Chris sat down on the bed and reached out a hand out to rub circles on Vincent’s back. Vincent’s muscles stiffened beneath his touch, coiled tightly like he was ready to spring away any second, although he stayed where he was.

“I don’t know, Vince. Please don’t think I’m not glad you’re here, because, trust me, I am beyond happy to see you. But things have been a bit complicated since you left and…” he trailed off. Recounting all his personal life drama wasn’t going to help the situation.

“Right. For now, let’s just get dressed and head downstairs for a bit. Maybe have some dinner if we can find any. I promise we’ll get rid of Toby as soon as possible and then it’s right back up here and anyone else who wants to interrupt us tonight deserves whatever they happen to see.”

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Vincent’s bare shoulder. “Besides. Anyone who walks in on you looking like that is getting a show worth paying for.”


	4. Chapter 4

Five minutes later, both of them dressed in their own clothing—Christian in black Nike trackies and a grey hoodie, Vincent in a black t-shirt and the jeans he’d reclaimed from Christian with his button down open over the top—they headed downstairs to meet Toby.

In the living room, Toby sat in one of the twin leather armchairs, his back to the window, corner wall lamps casting the room in a golden glow. He looked up as Vincent slid into the room behind Christian.

“Vincent.”

“Good to see you, Toby,” Vincent said. He didn’t add, _although it would have been nicer to see you some other time instead_.

Toby gave a noncommittal noise, which Vincent noted was definitely not a ‘good to see you too’.

Christian slid one arm around Vincent’s waist and pulled him down to the sofa, the two tucked in close beside one another, Christian’s head resting on Vincent’s shoulder.

A long pause, silence hanging heavy in the air between them all until Christian spoke. “So, Vince, how is everything in Istanbul?”

Vincent made a mental note to thank Christian for this later, banal as it may have been. Vincent had never been good at small talk or making conversation, but it all came so easily to Christian.

Things are good. The team is doing well lately. I think we’re a contender for league leaders now. As for the rest, the city is beautiful. Surrounded by the ocean. And the food. I mean, I’m in training so I can’t let myself indulge too much, but…the flavours and the spices. It’s a lovely place.”

“We should go on holiday there sometime,” Christian said. “Once you’re back. Not this summer obviously, but…”

Silence fell over the room again. Vincent acutely aware of Toby’s eyes fixed on him. Beside him, Christian’s presence was warm and comforting—rise and fall of Christian’s breaths against his arm, scent of his cologne filling Vincent’s nose and god, Vincent had missed having another person tucked up beside him on the sofa at night.

“So,” Toby said, breaking the silence. “Vincent. Why are you in London?”

“It’s Christmas.” Vincent raised his eyes to fix straight on Toby’s. Far be it from him to back down to whatever ridiculous challenge Toby was throwing at him right now.

“If I had the time, I’d spend the holiday with family,” Toby said. “One of the worst things about this league. I haven’t been home for Christmas in three years. Why not take advantage while you can?”

Vincent pulled Christian tighter against him. “I am spending it with family.”

Beside him, Christian made a small squeak of a noise and turned wide eyes towards Vincent. Pale blue, but this close Vincent could see the tiny flecks of golden-brown scattered around the iris.

“You…” Christian said, then flashed Vincent a soft smile. “I’d very much like to kiss you right now.”

“Anytime you want, _lieveke_ ,” he whispered, and was rewarded with the press of Christian’s mouth against his own.

Across the room, Toby groaned, but Vincent wasn’t inclined to care. Toby was the one who had barged in and interrupted a perfectly good evening, he deserved what he got. Christian, however jerked himself away from Vincent at the sound. His cheeks were tinged pink and he ducked his head and lowered his eyelashes as he settled back into the sofa. Vincent spared him a smile, then turned back to Toby with a glare. Toby just shrugged, climbed from his chair, and made his way towards the kitchen.

Christian uncurled himself from around Vincent and stood to follow. He took a few steps then stopped to look over his shoulder. “Coming?”

“You’re really just going to sit down here and make dinner with Toby like fifteen minutes ago I didn’t have your dick in my mouth?” Vincent asked, because he knew Christian’s friends were important to him, but this was all starting to get a bit out of hand.

At least Christian had the decency to look sorry about it.

“Plenty of time for that later,” he said. “Just…let him hide out here and have dinner and he’ll go back home and then I promise it’s just you and me in a nice warm bed all night long.”

Vincent took a deep breath and let it all out slowly. When Christian put things that way, who was he to argue about it?

“Fine. We’ll have dinner.”

Christian leaned down and pressed another kiss to Vincent’s lips, then drew back. “I’d better go help Toby.”

He disappeared around the corner and Vincent sank back into the smooth leather of the sofa.

The room around him as bright and open and cheerful as the rest of the house. Framed photographs scattered around every surface—Christian smiling and laughing, surrounded by his family and friends: His family in their home in Denmark; a young Christian damp with water and sweat flanked by Jan and Toby, the trio dressed in the red and white of Ajax while holding the silver plate that was the prize for winning the Eredivisie; Christian on the beach with various teammates during their holidays or summer training sessions abroad—Ben and Coco and Eric and others who Vincent had never met.

Christian wrapped up in warm, happy, golden spaces with people who cared about him.

Meanwhile Vincent spent his nights in a cold, bare apartment, staring out at the blue of the ocean and thinking about his friends and family thousands of kilometres away.

‘ _What are you doing here, Vincent_?’

And wasn’t that the question? Everywhere he went it was the same. What was he doing? A man without a home or a place. Moving around the world trying to find somewhere he was wanted.

Voices drifted around the corner from the kitchen. Snatches of conversation floating through the house.

“I told you I didn’t have any food,” Christian’s voice, still calm and steady as always, but with a hint of frustration creeping in on the edges if you knew what to listen for.

Toby said something in response, but Vincent couldn’t understand the words.

Christian’s voice once again, “No. I’m fine just…” the rest lost in the sound of rustling bags and the cabinet sliding open.

“All of that is for the party tomorrow,” Christian said. “So unless you want to explain to Jan and Soph why I don’t have half the things on their list you’d better not eat it.”

“What were you planning on eating today, then?” Toby asked, his voice growing louder as he rounded the corner into the living room and sank back down into the chair he’d previously vacated.

Christian trailed behind him and leaned against the doorframe, staring absently into the room. “I thought I’d pick up something.”

“Why didn’t you do that while you were out?”

“I forgot. I was so focused on the list that I didn’t think about dinner. It’s fine. I can run out. It will take ten minutes. Anything in particular you two want? They don’t have the best selection, but I can usually find something. Salad pots for sure, and they do usually have smoothies. Anything else I’m not sure about, it’s not a main store.”

‘ _Christiaan_. Are you trying to feed me dinner from the Tesco again? You know the rules.” Toby said.

“You’re the one that just dropped in. Besides, it’s the closest place.”

“At least go to Sainsbury’s. Their food is better.”

“It’s twice as far,” Christian protested. “And it’s not any different. If you want it, go get it yourself then.”

“ _Christiaan_.”

“Whatever, Toby.” Christian shoved off the doorframe and stalked out of the room towards the front hallway. “I’ll get a bunch of things and we can all split them up. Back in fifteen minutes.”

Vincent stared out the doorway after Christian, then looked at Toby, who was leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The moments that followed stretched tight between them, ready to snap in two if either of them made the slightest move.

He’d never had the same ease around Toby as he had with the rest of the Eredivisie contingent. Toby always holding him at a distance. Smiles, when he could spare them, never quite reaching his eyes. Whenever the two were alone together, Vincent always felt a bit like a child standing before a disapproving tutor.

Toby raised his gaze to meet Vincent’s, frowned, looked away, frowned again, then spoke.

“You shouldn’t be here, Vincent. We have a lot of important games coming up, and Christian’s play has suffered enough this season. He’s finally starting to get his life back in order. The last thing he needs is you coming in and distracting him then leaving everything a mess again.”

Leaving everything a mess? A distraction? Who was Toby to say what Christian did or didn’t need. Granted, Vincent hadn’t exactly gotten a chance to speak with Christian since he’d arrived, but he hoped Christian would have let him know if his presence here was a hardship.

“I don’t see why it’s any concern of yours.”

“Of course you don’t. You and Christian both. _Godverdamme_. You both make these stupid decisions and the rest of us have to deal with them. But what do you care? You’re not here.”

Right, because Vincent had somehow managed to forget _that_ in the half a day he’d been in London.

“I fucking know I’m not here, Toby. Thanks for the reminder that I live all alone on the other side of the continent in a flat full of Ikea furniture that I hate in a country whose language I still can’t speak.”

He sucked in a breath and held it, forcing himself to at least try to stay calm. Breath in, then out. Then in again.

“Just…Fuck, you all act like none of this affects me. Like I just swooped into Christian’s life for fun, seduced him because I could, and then ran away.”

“That’s what you did, though, isn’t it?” Steel at the edges of Toby’s words. Sharp and cutting.

“You knew the situation. How football works. And what did you do? Chose to stay with Christian and ended up making everything worse. You pulled him in and dragged him down and then left. That’s a lot to put on another person, Vincent, especially someone like Christian. When he commits to something, he dives in deep. You knew that and you pushed him anyway. You can sit here and say you didn’t want things to be this way, fine, but don’t act like you did nothing wrong.”

Sharp prick of pain against Vincent’s palm as his fingernails dug valleys into the skin there. He hadn’t even realised he’d been clenching his fists, but he pressed in harder, leaning into the sensation.  

Like Vincent didn’t know. Like he didn’t regret his decision to turn down Brighton every time he let himself think about it. Like he hadn’t spent the last four months desperately trying not to think about what could have been.

“What do you want me to say, Toby? If I hadn’t been stupid and stubborn and had just done as I was told I’d at least be in the same country. Playing in the same league. There might at least be a chance that I could come back. I fucked up my life and Christian’s life and…I know, okay? I know, but…there’s nothing I can do about it now, so…”

Silence stretched out between them. Vincent could feel Toby’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare look up.

 _Things are the way they are_. Christian’s words the day Vincent had told him he’d be leaving. Vincent had held him close and whispered his apologies against his skin. He’d given Christian the opportunity to end it there—part as friends, Vincent walking out the door and both of them going about their separate lives. But Christian had shaken his head and pressed kiss after kiss to Vincent’s lips, whispering declarations of love in three languages against Vincent’s skin.

Now…Christian’s life here was moving on without him, and what if Toby was right? What if all Vincent was doing by pulling Christian in and refusing to let go was making everything harder for him? He seemed happy, and he hadn’t said anything, but then again, he wouldn’t.

He’d thought Christian needed this just as badly as he did, but maybe, once again, he’d been wrong. Stumbled about and made a mess of things—leaving everyone’s life worse off in the aftermath.

He dragged his eyes upward. Toby’s face remained impassive as he reclined in his chair, mouth set in a firm, hard line. When he spoke, his voice was cool

“I just needed you to know. It’s been a mess around here since you left, and… I’m sorry about how things turned out, Vincent. I wish you well, I really do. You’re a good player. You’ll be the striker that someone needs someday soon, but for now, well. This thing with Christian, it’s…”

Toby blinked his eyes closed for a minute, then shook his head, climbed from his chair with a wince, and moved into the kitchen.

Vincent pressed himself harder into the sofa and wondered how rude it would be if he went upstairs and left Toby to whatever he was doing. He’d come down later and eat whatever food Toby and Christian hadn’t finished.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Should retrieve his luggage from where he’d stashed it in the corner of Christian’s bedroom and see if he could get a seat on the next flight to Spain. If the timing worked out, he could join everyone on the beach by early afternoon.

He climbed to his feet and was halfway up the stairs when he heard the whirring of Christian’s garage door. He paused for a second, knowing he should turn around, but the idea of sitting down to dinner as though Toby hadn’t just implied he was ruining Christian’s life, sounded like an even less appealing way to spend his evening than an overnight flight to Málaga. 

Christian, cheeks pink from the cold, long-life shopping bag stuffed to capacity, found Vincent rounding the corner onto the landing. “Vince? What are you doing? I brought dinner.”

And Vincent couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just show up and then walk out again, never to return, no explanations offered. He owed Christian more than that. Hell, he owed himself more than that.

Deep breath, then he turned around and headed back downstairs.

In the kitchen, Christian laid his purchases across the counter. Various salad pots in their white plastic packaging, bottled smoothies and fresh squeezed juice, a bunch of bananas, a bag of oranges and a bag of grapes, and some peeled carrots with houmous.

“I didn’t know what you wanted so I bought a variety. Eat whatever and I’ll save the rest for later.”

Vincent grabbed a package off the counter at random and ended up with a salad of quinoa, broccoli, chicken, and egg with assorted vegetables. He snagged an orange and one of the green smoothies and headed into the dining room.

The three ate in silence for a few moments. The food was bland and flavourless compared to the richly spiced meals he’d grown used to over the past few months, but it didn’t matter. Best just get through this dinner as quickly as possible and hope Christian would find some way of getting rid of Toby shortly after.

He’d talk things out with Christian later; get the lay of things. If his presence here during the string of holiday fixtures truly would be a burden on Christian then he’d change his plans and go. Toby was right about one thing—Vincent hadn’t considered that Christian might not have the time or energy for an extra houseguest right now.

“Vincent, how long are you staying?”

Vincent looked up at Toby’s question, the words taking a few seconds to sink in before he responded.

“I’m headed to The Netherlands after the new year for a week, and then…back to training in Istanbul I suppose.”

Unless he won some bizarre karmic lottery and the club decided to recall him from his loan early. As if that would happen. As if he’d ever play for Tottenham Hotspur again. Maybe he’d get weirdly lucky and some PL club who needed a big, slow striker would come into some kind of windfall and buy his services.

“Oh,” Christian said. “I’ll have to get you a match ticket for Tuesday. You can sit with Toby. He’ll be watching from the stands because of his injury.”

Vincent started to protest, but Toby cut him off. “Sounds good, Chris. It will be nice to get Vincent’s insights on things.”

Christian beamed over at both of them and went back to his salad.

When they’d finished, Christian set about clearing away the packaging while Vincent gathered up the remaining groceries and tucked them into the refrigerator, trying to find space around all the supplies Christian had picked up for this apparent party.

"Christian. What’s all this about a party?”

“Oh! At Jan’s house. Since we have a Boxing Day match only the English lads who live close enough can make it home for the holiday, so most of the rest of us are headed to Jan’s to celebrate.”

Ah. A Christmas party with Christian’s teammates—and okay, technically his as well he supposed, but…

“I’m not sure I should go.”

“Why not? You’ll know most everyone there. I doubt anyone will mind one more.”

“No, but…”

Christian leaned in and pressed a kiss to Vincent’s lips.

Vincent tugged him closer, chest and stomach aching with a deep, burning need to hold Christian so tightly that neither of them could breathe without the other. He crushed his mouth against Christian’s until his lips parted wide enough for Vincent to slide his tongue past them and swipe at the corners. Hot and damp, the taste of sweet chili chicken from Christian’s salad filling Vincent’s mouth.

“Can’t you two at least wait until I’m gone before you reattach?”

Vincent didn’t bother to hold in his groan. “If you don’t like it, then leave. No one made you be here.”

Christian’s eyes widened with the look of feigned innocence and confusion he had about him whenever he was trying to duck out of confrontation. “Vince. It’s okay. Toby are you leaving now?”

Toby rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I suppose so, yes.”

“Good,” Christian said. “Then you can take all the party snacks with you so I don’t have to bring them tomorrow.”

He gestured to the bags lining the counter, then pulled stacks of cheese and bread and more fruit out of the refrigerator and started handing them to Toby, who tossed them in with the rest.

Job done, Christian straightened up and carried two of the bags towards the front door. Toby snatched the third and trailed behind him.

“Why can’t you bring this with you?”

“You’re going back to Jan’s, yes? You may as well bring it so it’s already there whenever you lot start getting ready.”

“Noon. Be there, both of you. We need all the help we can get.”

“The party isn’t until three.”

“Noon.”

“ _Tot ziens_ , Toby.”

“Chris,” Toby’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, and Vincent leaned towards the door to hear. “You know I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I know,” Christian said. “Right now, I’m good. Really, really good.”

“Yes, for now. Just…call me if you need anything. Any time. "

Ben had said the same thing. Call me if you need. Like Christian was some kind of child who had no idea how to live on his own instead of a grown adult who was capable of looking after himself.

Vincent crept back into the living room and slid onto the sofa. A few more snatches of conversation, but Vincent couldn’t make out the words, then the door clicked closed and Christian lowered himself down beside Vincent a few seconds later. He dropped his head to Vincent’s shoulder, warm presence radiating into Vincent, and there were so many things Vincent wanted to say. His head spun under the weight of it all.

What came out was “Should I go?” and that wasn’t at all what he meant to ask, but he’d said it. The words hovered heavy in the air between them.

“I…” Christian said, then took a breath. Sliding back behind his mask of calm control. “Do you want to go?”

Why would I want to go? Why would I ever want to go? I want to stay here forever. Spend every night by your side and every day on the pitch with you and every hour in-between in easy reach. I want to shop for groceries and make coffee and eat dinner and drive you to training and move my clothes into your drawers. I want to have a place in your life again and once I have it I never want to leave it.

“No,” he whispered. “It’s just…”

“Well I certainly don’t want you to.” Christian said. “In fact…I’d very much like you to stay for as long as possible.”

His mouth crushed against Vincent’s. Fingers in Vincent’s hair and tongue sliding against Vincent’s teeth and every thought flew from Vincent’s mind except _Christiaan_.


	5. Chapter 5

Chris woke to a beam of sunlight glaring through the crack around his window shade directly into his eye. He blinked awake, rolling over and putting his hand up to block the harsh light cutting through the dim room and dragging him out of the best night of sleep he’d had in months.

Squinting, he propped himself up on one elbow. The sun shouldn’t be able to reach his eyes from the angle of his bed and, oh, this wasn’t his bed. Or rather, it was his guest bed—technically his, but not the one he usually slept in.

Beside him, a bare, empty space where another body should have been. For a moment, Chris wondered if he’d dreamt it all—Vincent showing up at his house; Vincent’s lips on his; Vincent’s hands exploring his body, pressing in to all the right places; when it was over, Vincent holding him close and putting him back together.

He slipped one leg out of the bedclothes and immediately jerked it back in as the cold air sucked the warmth from his skin. He thought about calling out for Vincent, begging him to slip back into the cocoon of blankets for a while longer. It was Christmas, he had the day off, and Vincent was here. A good day to be _hyggeligt_ if there ever was one.

Instead, Chris rolled to the edge of the bed and stood up, hissing as the chill winter air made all the hair on his body stand on end and raised gooseflesh across his skin.

The trackies and hoodie he’d been wearing the night before lay piled beside the bed, and he shoved hastily into both, then crept down the hallway to his own bedroom and rummaged in the cupboard for a pair of socks to ward off the cold that always seeped through the floorboards no matter how high he turned up the heating.

A dull ache surged through the muscles in his back and thighs with every movement, his body feeling equal parts relaxed and battered to bits. Not all of it from training, he knew. They’d have to slow down a bit for the rest of Vincent’s stay if Chris was going to be of any use in the rapid-fire string of matches coming up.

  
  


He found Vincent in the living room, leaned back into the sofa, eyes heavy-lidded as he stared toward the television.

Chris slipped in beside him, and Vincent turned his head.

“Oh. You’re up. I thought about coming upstairs to wake you, but I figured you deserved the sleep.” Vincent’s voice was still rough around the edges as though he’d only just woken up himself.

“How long have you been awake?” Chris asked.

Vincent flicked a glance towards the clock on the wall. “About three hours, give or take.”

“What on earth were you doing up at half six in the morning on a holiday?”

“Time lag and all that. Or did you forget about me nearly falling asleep in the shower?”

Oh, right. That was how they’d ended up in the guest bed. Vincent had been so exhausted the night before that Chris practically had to drag him down the hall to the shower so they could clean up before bed. He’d woken up a bit once they’d emerged from the hot steam into the chill of the house, but only long enough to stumble the few metres to the guest bedroom and crash back into sleep just after nine pm. Chris had retrieved their clothing and some extra pillows from his room, then tucked up beside Vincent to read a book on his tablet and listen to Vincent’s soft snores beside him.

“Did you sleep well?” Chris asked.

“Better than I have in a very long time, you?”

“Mmm. The same.”

The two sat in silence and Chris dropped his head to Vincent’s shoulder. He was rewarded with a strong arm pulling him in closer, surrounding him in soft warmth, the citrus tang of Chris’s body wash filling the air around them.

The television, volume too low for Chris to make out the words, displayed people hard at work mixing and frosting and pulling pans in and out of ovens.

“What are you watching?”

“Great British Bake Off.” Vincent said, nonchalant, as though this were a thing he did every day at eight thirty in the morning.

“Great…what? Have you been watching a baking show for three hours?”

“There’s nothing else on. I’ve seen all these already, but when I tuned in they were making stroopwafels and it made me think of home so I left it.”

“Hmm.” Chris could understand that. Honestly, he could go for a stroopwafel and coffee himself right now, but he had a match tomorrow and needed to be careful what he ate—even on Christmas.

Then his brain caught up with Vincent’s words and he lifted his head from Vincent’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, did you say you’ve seen all these already? Since when do you watch Great British Bake Off?”

Vincent shrugged and pursed his lips, eyes turned to the floor, his cheeks tinged with the barest hint of pink. “I…well I started watching it when I moved here, honestly, but I’ve been watching back seasons while I’ve been away and I watched the latest season online. I confess I’m a bit hooked.”

“But…” Chris started and then stopped because Vincent could watch whatever he wanted but why hadn’t he heard about this baking show obsession before now? “You don’t bake, do you? Unless you were holding out on me for all those months.”

“No. I just…It all looks so good and I can’t actually eat cake because of training, which I know is sort of like torturing yourself, but the whole idea of it is just…” a pause and then he set himself, jaw strong and his voice firm as he lifted his eyes from their fixed stare at the floor. “I really like cake, Christian, leave me alone.”

Chris laughed. A full, deep laugh, his entire body shaking with it. The sound rang out in the quiet of the house, and it felt so good to be here once more, curled up on the sofa and caught up in Vincent’s infectious presence. “Fine. Whatever. Torture yourself by watching people eat cake you can’t have. I’m going to make coffee.”

“Oh, um…” Vincent said, pushing himself to his feet. “I sort of used your coffee maker. I meant to clean it before you got up, but I didn’t yet.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind cleaning it.”

“Okay, just…I actually brought you something, but I left it upstairs. Hold on.”

Vincent disappeared out the door and up the stairs, and Chris headed into the kitchen to wait.

Weak sunlight filtered through the wide windows of his kitchen. The day clear and he was thankful for the sun. He’d gotten used to London winter with it’s leaden skies and misty dampness, but something about Christmas begged for a little brightness and cheer.

Chris leaned against the kitchen island, narrowing his eyes at the rustling of paper and Vincent’s soft Dutch curses drifting in from the stairwell. Chris was about to go see if he needed any help when Vincent appeared around the corner, a large, paper-wrapped rectangle in his hands.

He propped it against the wall between the dining room and the kitchen and Chris crouched down to examine it. No markings. Nothing to indicate what it was or where it was from. Just a thigh-high, paper-wrapped package tied in simple blue ribbon.

“Your gift,” Vincent said. “Well, one of them.” He held up a small paper bag. “Here’s the other one.”

Because Vincent showing up at his house to stay for a week wasn’t enough of a Christmas gift. Especially after Chris’s own ill-fated attempt at gift giving a few weeks ago. He’d meant it as this sweet, sentimental gesture—I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you, but I want you by my side—but it had come off as arrogant and self-centered, and honestly he was lucky Vincent hadn’t just hung up on him immediately without giving him the time to explain.

“You didn’t have to get me a gift. Certainly not two.”

“Think of this one,” Vincent held up the paper bag again, “more as a ‘thank you for letting me show up at your house uninvited and stay for a week’ sort of gift.”

“I told you. You’re always welcome here. Any time at all.” He wrapped Vincent in a hug, letting out a soft sigh at the drag of scruff against his cheek. Vincent’s mouth pressed against his, warm and coffee bitter and Chris melted into the embrace.

Vincent was the first to pull back. “Open your gift.”

Chris shook his head, then unwound himself from Vincent and slid one arm down to the small of his back to guide him towards the kitchen. “Coffee first.”

“Good plan.”

The bag, it turned out, contained Vincent’s favourite Turkish coffee and a box with the small pot used to brew it. Vincent set himself about the kitchen, running water into the pot then pouring in the grounds and heating it over the stove.

“I think you’ll like it,” he said. “The idea takes a bit of getting used to, but when you get down to it it’s not much different than the British and their tea leaves. Mind the grounds a bit and you’ll come out alright.”

When the coffee was done to his satisfaction, he poured it into two small cups and handed one to Chris.

Chris held his face over the dark liquid, breathing in the bitter aromas—floral and bright with a hint of sugar sweetness—already waking up a bit just from the smell filling the air. The cup far smaller than his usual mugs, and the coffee thicker and darker, richer. Deep and bitter with just the right amount of sweetness to balance.

“This is good,” he said, smiling up at Vincent who stood, eyes closed, sipping his own cup. “You’re right that it’s different than I’m used to, but I quite like it.”

“Good,” Vincent said, his eyes flicking open to meet Chris’s. “Because this is yours now. I have one just like it so I thought I’d bring you one. Maybe sometimes you can make your coffee this way and think of me.”

Chris stepped across the narrow space to stand beside him, their hips pressed together, elbows touching. “I’d like that.”

He’d missed this. Small bits of domesticity. He and Vincent leaned up against the kitchen island, steam rising from hot mugs in the cold winter chill. Side by side after a night spent tangled up together, neither ready to leave the warm safety of the house for the world outside where they had to pretend they were nothing more to one another than teammates and good friends. If they were lucky, maybe they’d find some mornings where their schedules lined up, even if just for the barest of moments. They could turn on Skype, laptops perched on the counter as they brewed coffee and talked, each of them in their respective kitchens trying to forget the continent of space between them.

Coffee done, Chris turned back towards the dining room. “Can I open my gift now?”

“Yes, of course.”

Vincent trailed into the living room and slid onto the sofa. Chris lifted the paper-wrapped rectangle from where it lay propped against the wall and carried it over so he could sit beside Vincent. He spared Vincent a smile and saw that he was beaming ear to ear. That wholehearted, genuine smile that had captured Chris’s heart from the first moment he saw it.

Chris slid a finger into the seam at the top corner and wiggled it until the paper loosened, working slowly and deliberately. He eased the flap open to reveal the hint of deep mahogany wood inside. Beside him, Vincent squirmed in his seat, staring at Chris.

“ _Christiaan_. You open gifts like my grandmother. It’s not even nice paper, just rip it.”

Chris leaned in and pressed a fingertip to Vincent’s long, straight nose. “Just for that. I’m going to take as long as possible.”

“Fine. Take your time. What do I care? I know what it is.”

“I’d hope so,” Chris said, turning his attention back to the paper, although for Vincent’s sake he did move a bit faster this time.

For Chris, opening gifts had always been about the art of discovery. Peeling back the layers to reveal what was inside piece by piece, brain spinning and guessing at the contents along the way.

He lifted the flap running the long edge of the rectangle to reveal another strip of the mahogany wood.

“It looks like…a picture frame?”

“Not telling,” Vincent said, but his face told Chris he’d at least guessed close to correctly.

Chris worked at the rest of the paper, now peeling it back in one wide sheet to reveal that yes, in fact, he had gotten it right.

Backside of a picture frame, white tagboard with a wire for hanging. The wood a rich brown with the barest red tone—not dissimilar to the colour of Vincent’s hair, Chris thought.

“A picture?” Chris said, rotating the frame to look at the front.

A large, square building—cream coloured arches and tall towers looming above an expanse of deep blue water that sparkled with gold. Sky behind it painted pink and orange and purple.

“Istanbul,” Vincent said. “That’s the railway station. I can see it from the balcony of my flat if I lean over at just the right angle. Sometimes, I come home from training and walk down to the harbour to watch the sun set behind it just like that. I thought maybe you could put it on your wall and sometimes sit and look at it too.”

Chris’s eyes flicked up to meet Vincent’s. Warm brown, the colour of melted chocolate. Reflecting flecks of gold in the early morning light. Vincent’s face so hopeful, but traced with sadness. A faraway look, as though he were thinking of some other place and some other time.

“I love it,” Chris said. “Let’s find a spot for it to hang. I think…well I could put it in here, near the windows. Or…” No. Not downstairs. Not in the living room. This wasn’t the room where he thought of Vincent. This was the room where he sat with friends and tried not to think about Vincent.

He stood up, hoisting the picture along with him. “Upstairs.”

Vincent gave him a soft smile and shook his head. “Later, okay? After breakfast. All these pictures of cake made me hungry.”

Chris laughed and propped the picture against the doorframe, then ruffled Vincent’s hair. Free of its usual swipe of product it was silken soft beneath his hands. “I don’t have cake. You’ll have to make due with fruit and a slice of toast with jam.”


	6. Chapter 6

“You don’t miss your family?” Christian asked.

They were seated at Christian’s long wood dining table, light streaming in through the windows lining the room. They’d managed to piece together something resembling breakfast from the remnants of what Christian had brought home the previous evening; a platter filled with fruit and slices of whole grain toast with homemade jam Christian’s family had sent from Denmark sat nestled on the table between them.

“Of course I miss them. And the beach. And the sunshine. But I’ll see them all soon enough.”

He’d sent his mother an email the moment he’d hung up his call with Christian a few weeks prior— _Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to join the family for holidays this year, despite the break. I know everyone was looking forward to seeing me and I’ll be sad to miss it, but I need to return to London. I’ll fly home for a visit after the new year. Give my love to everyone_.

Her email back had been filled with a hopeful tone— _Of course we will miss you, but we are glad to hear you must return to London. Have you been recalled from your loan? Will you be back in London permanently?_

If only he were that lucky. Return to London in December and somehow be asked to stay. _Oh, Vincent, since you’re here you may as well remain_.

No, mother, I’m still out of favour. Still a failure. Still stuck here far away from my home. Still never belonging anywhere.

“Well,” Christian said, reaching for an orange slice and a banana. “I can’t give you the beach. Or sunshine. But I can give you a party and a house full of friends.”

Right. The Christmas party Vincent hadn’t been invited to but would show up at anyway as though of course he was meant to be there. A room full of people he’d once called friends in a city he’d once called home; Vincent an outsider without a place among them.

Vincent didn’t hold back his groan at the thought. “Why don’t you go to the party without me, Chris? I’m not sure I’m up for it.”

“Vince.” Christian’s face was set in a frown, his eyes wide with concern. “We talked about this last night. Everyone will be glad to see you. You left us so suddenly and…we do all miss your presence around the training centre.”

Somehow, Vincent had a hard time believing that was true. He knew the way of these things. No matter how fondly you thought of a former teammate when he left, the reality was that life—and football—moved on.

“I doubt that. All of you have your own season and your own football and your own lives to be going on with, you don’t need to make space for a failed teammate who barely lasted a year with the club.”

“That’s not true. Some of the lads still ask after you sometimes. They’ll all be glad to hear how you’re getting on.”

“What am I supposed to tell them, anyway? ‘ _How are you Vincent_ ?’ Well, on the whole life is good and Istanbul is beautiful. I wake up every day to bright colours and strong coffee and food laden with fragrant spices. The league is more on my level, although I’m still not scoring goals. But at least I’m playing. At least the team and the fans want me I _should_ be happy, but…”

Vincent leaned back in his chair, head tipped back as he stared up at the stark white of Christian’s ceiling. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready to paste on a smile and raise a glass to Tottenham Hotspur. A toast to the life I’ve always wanted but can never have, everything I’ve had and lost, and the way it all could have gone if only I hadn’t fucked it up.”

Christian dropped his half-eaten piece of toast to his plate and slid his chair towards Vincent, his eyes wide with concern. His right hand found Vincent’s left, fingers twining together, squeezing tight.

“Don’t, Chris,” Vincent said. “Don’t pity me. Not today.”

“I won’t. You’re right about it.”

Typical Christian. Calm and cold and rational. Vincent didn’t want his pity, he truly didn’t, but he also wasn’t sure he was ready for Christian’s particular brand of harsh truth.

“Thanks for that. I appreciate all your support,” he said, his voice coming out harsher than he meant it to.

Christian’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. Face still calm and emotionless to the untrained observer, but to Vincent the reaction was as unmistakable as if Christian had actively reeled away from him.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…” Christian shook his head as if to clear it, then started over.

“Come to the party. These are still your teammates and your friends. You’re still a Spurs player, and we take care of our own.”

Christian had a point, he supposed. As much as he no longer felt like a part of Tottenham Hotspur, he was still a member of the club. Not fully Spurs anymore, but also never truly Fener. A man displaced, but at least at Spurs he’d felt a part of something. At Fener everything was still so tentative—Vincent still telling himself not to get attached because it would all be over before he knew it.

“Fine. I’ll go. But I don’t know how long I’ll stay. There’s only so much feigned politeness I can manage in one day, you know?”

Christian lifted Vincent’s hand and bent down to press a kiss to his knuckles, his lips soft against Vincent’s skin.

“What are we going to tell everyone, though?” Vincent asked. “About why I’m here. Like Toby said, I should be in Málaga with my parents and my siblings. What possible reason do I have for being here?”

Christian stopped for a second. Eyes staring up at the lights in the ceiling, chewing at his bottom lip in that way that always made something come undone inside Vincent.

“It’s not that unheard of, former players coming back to watch a match. Kevin comes down from Stoke to see Sonny whenever he gets a chance. Besides, you’re spending the holiday with family, as you said last night. So…if anyone asks, that’s what we tell them—we’re family, and family should be together on Christmas.”

Vincent closed the gap between them in an instant, wrapping his arms around Christian and crushing their mouths together. Christian relaxed against him, a warm, soft weight in Vincent’s arms. Their bodies contorted at odd angles in the wooden chairs at Christian’s dining room table.

Christian kissed him back, their mouths opening at the same time, moving together as one, because they knew one another’s ways so well after all this time together. Hints of banana and orange and a sweet tang from the jam. Christian’s hand traced a line up Vincent’s forearm, fingers digging at the the muscles just below his elbow. The air around them filled with the noise of their breaths and the slick, wet sound of their kisses.

Heat from Christian’s thigh pumped into his, and Vincent twisted farther around, ignoring the twinge of pain as the chair back dug into his ribs. He pulled Christian closer and nearly ended up toppling them both to the floor, chairs and all.

Christian grabbed at the table to steady them then pulled away from Vincent. He slid his chair closer to the table, legs scraping against the wood floor with a screech.

“We should…not here…” he gasped out between breaths.

Vincent sucked in a breath of his own, his chest heaving and his pulse racing. Christian was right, the dining room in the middle of breakfast was hardly the place for this.

They sat in silence for a few moments, neither daring to move until they’d regained some measure of composure. Everything still feeling fresh and new as they reunited after so many months away—always a second from a desperate need to crash together and never let go.

“Let’s…find a spot for that photograph.” Christian said, still breathless, although he sounded far more in control than Vincent felt.

“Yeah…okay.” A distraction at least. Something to keep them from falling back into bed and never leaving it again, although Vincent certainly wouldn’t mind if that’s how they ended up spending the day.

Christian took in another deep breath, then stood up and walked towards the living room, lifting the photograph from its resting place against the sofa. Vincent trailed after him into the front entry and up the stairs.

At the top, Christian paused and leaned the frame against the railing. “Where should this go? I thought about the bedroom next to the photo of Amsterdam, so I could have them both together, but I don’t know. I could move that one into the guest bedroom. Toby’s been sleeping there quite often, and he gave me the photo so he might appreciate seeing it.”

Vincent hadn’t meant for the gift to be this complicated. He’d just liked the idea of Christian being able to sit somewhere, look at the photo, and think of him. There was something about the idea of them sharing that experience that made Vincent feel a bit less alone.

“It’s your house. Put it wherever you want. I don’t want you to have to move everything around, I’m sorry it’s…I didn’t think. I’m making you have to rearrange your whole house just for some photo when you’ve already got everything the way you like it.”

Christian leaned in and stopped Vincent’s stream of words with a kiss, pressing Vincent back up against the wall, hard press of plaster cool against his shoulder blades.

“I love this. This is a perfect gift and I want to make sure it’s hung in the perfect spot. When you’re back, we can sit somewhere or lay in bed and look at it together and you can tell me all about Istanbul. I meant what I said last night, about a holiday. I want to see it someday. It sounds like an amazing place.”

“It is, but it’s not London.”

“No. It’s not. But it’s your home now, where you are, and I love it.”

Christian leaned over to kiss Vincent once more, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. Warm drag of Christian’s scruff against Vincent’s neck. Christian’s hands everywhere; skimming down Vincent’s torso to rest on his hips. The air between them was thick with the sounds of their breath, Christian’s heart slamming against Vincent’s chest; his own heart echoing the rhythm.

Vincent angled his head to deepen the kiss, desperate with need despite so many stolen kisses over the past day. They had nearly four months of missed time to make up for, and Vincent intended to take back as many moments as possible during his brief stay in London. After all, he had no idea when the opportunity would present itself again, if ever.

Christian drew back a few centimetres, his mouth moving to Vincent’s collarbone, making Vincent’s vision go black at the edges as all the blood in his body rushed to his groin.

Cold fingers slid against hot skin, Christian’s hand pushing under Vincent’s hoodie and tugging at the waistband of his track bottoms. Vincent let out an involuntary hissing gasp at the sensation and Christian paused, eyes wide, staring at Vincent with pupils blown.

“Sorry,” Vincent said. “Just…your hands are freezing.”

“Oh. I’m…” Christian mumbled, his eyes distant. “Sorry. We should…” He shook his head and snapped out of his fog. His gaze cleared as he took a breath then gave a sharp nod before pulling away from Vincent. “Right. I know exactly where this photo should go.”

He lifted the frame once more, this time carrying it the few steps into his spare room.

The storage room? Vincent had given Christian this photo in the hopes he’d sit and look at it and think of Vincent and he wanted to stick it in the one room of his house no one ever saw? He supposed it was appropriate, if he thought about it. Nestled here amidst all the things Christian kept around because he liked them too much to get rid of them but had no real need for in his everyday life. The hideous jumper you pulled out once a year on holidays because your _oma_ had knitted it for you and you wanted her to know you appreciated the gesture even if you’d never dare wear it outside your home.

“You’re putting it in here?”

“With your sofa. That way everything that reminds me of you can be together. Plus there’s nothing on the wall here so I won’t have to play musical wall hangings. I’ll see if someone can come hang it this week.”

“If you say so,” Vincent said. He shrugged and sat down on the edge of the sofa nearest the door. “I mean, it’s your house.”

Christian carried the picture to the far side of the room and leaned it against the wall, then slid in to join Vincent on the sofa. He pressed in close and leaned his head on Vincent’s shoulder. Vincent wrapped an arm around his waist, fingers resting on the bone of Christian’s hip.

“Vince? Is everything, okay?”

And how was he supposed to answer that? Yes, Christian, great. The one person I need to be there for me and tell me he’s proud of me keeps all evidence of my existence in his life tucked away in a storage room. Maybe Toby had been right. Christian had been perfectly happy until Vincent had come along and forced his way into his life, expecting Christian to make space for him amidst people who had been around long before Vincent had arrived and would continue to be long after Vincent was nothing more than a memory.

All he could manage was, “I’m sorry.”

“About what?’

“I never meant for things to be like this, Chris. I never meant to drag you into my mess of a life. You have so much already and to make space for me. I don’t want you to lose everything you already have—your friends and your family and your beautiful, beautiful football.”

Christian’s eyes were fixed on him now, wide and appraising. As though Vincent were a puzzle to be solved and if Christian stared at him hard enough it might unlock the key.

“It is what it is. You made a choice. Things didn’t go the way you hoped they would. It’s not the situation any of us wanted, but all we can do from here is make the best of things, move forward, and see where the summer takes us. Football is football and life is life and you make the best of whatever it throws at you.”

“It’s still not fair to you. You deserve better than what I can give. You’re on top of the world right now. You carry your teams on your back and make everyone around you better. All I do is fuck things up and drag everyone down with me. On and off the pitch.”

Christian shifted beside him until he could press his lips against Vincent’s neck just above his collar. “You didn’t drag me into anything. I knew what could happen. I made my choices too.”

Vincent leaned into the touch, relishing the sensation. Drag of scruff against the sensitive skin of his neck. Christian nipped at his clavicle and Vincent let out a soft sigh.

“It’s just…Toby acted like I ruined your career and possibly your entire life by making you get involved with me. And I’m not sure he’s wrong, now that I think about it. I pushed you into all of it…making a decision, putting a label on what this is. And then I tried to stay with you even though I knew I needed to go and…I was so stupid and you got caught up in it all.”

Christian pressed a kiss to the tip of Vincent’s nose before sitting back. “I won’t lie to you, things have been hard. But I’m lucky. I have the best friends in the world to help me through it. To distract me with board games and weird hobbies. Toby all but moved in here for the first few weeks after you left. I wasn’t sleeping well, to the point that I made myself physically ill, and…it’s hard, of course, but I’m getting through.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. All that because of me. You shouldn’t have to go through it. You shouldn’t need distracting or someone to take care of you. I came in and disrupted your beautiful, perfect life with your house and your family and your friends. The last thing you needed was to get attached to someone who’s never been good enough to belong anywhere.”

Christian’s eyes flew open and he stared at Vincent for a few seconds, mouth open, before gathering him close. He shifted their positions until Vincent’s head was cradled against his chest. Arms firm and strong around Vincent, wrapping him in a hug. Christian’s heartbeat a steady rhythm in Vincent’s ears.

Silence stretched between them. Christian’s hand in Vincent’s hair, stroking it softly. Vincent burrowed in, pressing into Christian’s strong chest, letting himself be held tight and comforted like a small child who’d just woken from a bad dream.

And wouldn’t that be lovely, blink his eyes open to find himself in Christian’s arms on a crisp autumn morning, only to find the last few months had been nothing more than his imagination. Drag himself awake, Christian ruffling at his hair and scolding him for falling asleep in such an awkward position, making them both have to stretch the kinks out of their backs and shoulders.

You belong here,” Christian said at long last. “Everything I have and everything I am—my friends and my family and football and London, all of it—it’s all yours if you want it. If you do come back…I think, you should stay here. With me. If you want to. This room can be yours from now on. A space for you to use in whatever way you like.”

Another silence dragged between them, Vincent counting the rise and fall of their chests as they drew in shared breaths. When Vincent spoke, his voice was soft and ragged around the edges, as he tried to force the words out around the boulder in his chest.

“I do want to come back, Chris. I want to be with you, but the reality of the situation is…” He lacked the words to finish that sentence. Everything about his future uncertain, and it was best if he didn’t let himself think about any of that right now.

Christian pressed his fingertips to Vincent’s lips and leaned down to kiss the top of his head.

“Whatever happens, we’ll work with it. I do hope that you will return and we will play together again, of course. But no matter where life takes us your place is with me. I want you in my life, _liefje_. I’m better when I’m with you—in whatever form that has to take.”

“ _Christiaan_ —” Vincent said and Christian captured the rest of Vincent’s words with his mouth, kissing Vincent until nothing else mattered.

Vincent’s palm found the back of Christian’s head, pulling him in deeper, fingertips rubbing his scalp and twisting in his hair. They collapsed to the sofa in a tangle of limbs, Christian’s body firm and solid against his own. Vincent sank into him, craving Christian’s presence so much he felt weak with it, as though he hadn’t eaten for days.

After long moments, Christian drew back as much as the tight confines would allow, capturing Vincent’s bottom lip between his teeth, making Vincent shudder and groan. He tugged at the hem of Vincent’s hoodie, yanking it upward until the fabric bunched up in the centimetres of space between them.

Vincent pressed back into the cushions to give him more room to work, hand on Christian’s hip to keep him from toppling off the sofa. They’d done this so many times that the motions were nearly instinctive now—each of them knowing the exact way to position their bodies to make sure neither of them went crashing to the floor.

“Bedroom?” Vincent asked, his voice low and breathless, dragging the word out of himself through the surge of sensations slamming against him from all sides.

“Seems too hard,” Christian choked out between kisses. “Let’s stay in your room for now.”

His room. In Christian’s house. And whether he’d meant to or not, Christian had given him the best Christmas gift he’d ever gotten. Everything Vincent himself hadn’t known he’d needed until the words had left Christian’s lips. ‘ _You belong here_ … _with me_.’

The bones of Christian’s hips pressed sharp against Vincent’s fingers as he rolled them both over, his thighs slipping on either side of Christian’s torso, heat radiating between them. Vincent felt the outline of Christian’s cock against his own and he exhaled on a shaky sigh.

Drag of fabric as Christian tugged Vincent’s shirt over his head, and Vincent followed suit. He propped himself on his elbows, hovering over Christian, pressing kiss after kiss to his chest. Christian clutched at Vincent’s hip, fingers digging in to hold him in place. As though Vincent had any plans to go anywhere ever.

Sweat slicked skin against skin. Coming together as one. Hands tracing every curve and line. Vincent’s entire body quivering. It felt like he was underwater, straining for the surface and gasping for breath.

Then Christian sighed Vincent’s name against his skin and Vincent closed his eyes and let himself drown.


	7. Chapter 7

Much later, they lay on the sofa in a tangle of limbs and blankets. The room was now bright with afternoon light, and the air redolent with the smells of sweat and sex.

For the first month and a half after Vincent had left, Chris had spent most of his nights sleeping on this sofa, face pressed into the cushions, breathing in Vincent’s scent. He’d start out in his bed, Toby piling every blanket in the house atop him to try and make him feel warm and secure, but eventually the space beside him would grow too big and too cold and too empty and he’d drag himself down the hall and collapse onto the sofa, remembering nights tucked up beside Vincent. Chris had always been a bit skeptical about how much Vincent loved this sofa, but now he thought he understood.

Chris slid in closer to press his face into the curve of Vincent’s neck just above his clavicle. “Sorry I don’t have a gift for you. Will that do for now.”

Vincent’s laugh, when he found his breath, came out low and ragged. “Mmm. One of the best gifts I’ve ever received.”

Chris nipped at his collarbone, causing Vincent to let out an undignified squeak. “Good. Because this is one of the best I’ve ever received.”

“It’s just a photograph,” Vincent said, and Chris shook his head.

“No. Not that. I mean, I love that, too, but just…you. Here. I can’t think of any better gift.”

Vincent made a low noise of appreciation and pulled Chris in closer. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be, _lieveke_.”

“Good. I meant what I said. Whenever you come back, you should live here with me. You can have this room, although please don’t think you’re not welcome in mine. Any of the rooms, really. Run of the house. What’s mine is yours.”

“Mmmm. Well. Don’t think I don’t appreciate that offer, but…maybe don’t start clearing away the boxes just yet, okay? You said it yourself, you never know where life might take you.”

“True enough,” Chris said.

He lay still for a few moments, trying to remember how his limbs worked. His whole body felt warm and soft and boneless from their lovemaking.

Chris had taken his time exploring every inch of Vincent’s body as though they were coming together for the first time. His moves cautious and hesitant, electricity thrumming in the air between them as he traversed every angle, pressing and kissing and licking until Vincent came apart in his hands, then, just as slowly, Chris had put him back together again.

Vincent had needed it, Chris knew, and if he was being honest with himself, he’d needed it just as much.

He sent good thoughts to his legs and kicked at the blanket, attempting to unwind from around Vincent and stand up. He had no idea what time it was, but he was willing to bet it was well past noon and he definitely needed to shower. Best get moving before Toby decided he needed to show up and stage another intervention or something.

Free from the snarl of blankets and limbs, he stretched his arms overhead, sighing at the blissful pull of muscles and joints snapping back into place, then climbed to his feet.

He stared down at the long lines of Vincent’s body, everything feeling new again despite the fact that he was starting to lose count of how many times in the past twenty-four hours Vincent had lay naked beside him. He took his time, eyes tracing the strong line of Vincent’s jaw, the curve where his neck met his shoulder, contour of biceps and chest, down his torso to the flat plane of his stomach, moving into the V between his hips, and then further. Committing all of it to memory once more, as if he’d ever been able to forget.

Finished, he held out a hand to help Vincent from the sofa, but Vincent didn’t move, his body laying limp and boneless against the cushions.

“Can’t we just stay here a bit longer,” he asked, but Chris shook his head.

“We’re already late, I’m sure, and we still have to shower.”

“You go first,” Vincent said. “I don’t want to move.”

Chris pressed a kiss to Vincent’s forehead before shuffling out of the room. “Honestly, neither do I, but the last thing we need is Toby showing up here again. Five minutes. Then it’s your turn.”

 

 

The better part of an hour later, both of them freshly showered and dressed in clothing that hadn’t spent any of the previous day crumpled on the floor beside the bed, they climbed into Chris’s car and made the five minute drive around Hampstead Heath to Jan’s house.

Without hesitation, Chris turned his car into the private driveway and slipped it into a parking space beside Mousa’s SUV. He cracked his door open and stepped out into the chill of London winter, wind howling through the hedges and swirling around him.

He flipped up the collar of his jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets, and marched towards the door, stopping on the front step to look back for Vincent.

Vincent sat motionless in the passenger seat, his head back and his eyes shut tight. Chris knew he was worried about the party, apprehensive about everyone’s reaction to him showing up as if he were just another teammate. And Chris could understand his fears, although he knew they were unfounded. Tonight was about family and friends and food. Laughter and smiles and good cheer, and that was exactly what Vincent needed right now. To remember that even if he wasn’t there in the dressing room or out on the training pitch, he still had people in London who cared about him and Spurs teammates who wished him well.

Eventually, Vincent huffed out a breath, then straightened up and slid out of the car. Chris held out his hand, wincing against the biting cold against his bare skin, and Vincent took it. He tugged Chris in closer, the solid bone of his hip pressing against Chris’s own.

Chris gave him his best reassuring smile. “Everyone will be glad to see you, I promise. And for a little while it’s just friends—Jan and Toby and Mousa. Nothing to hide. No questions asked.” He flicked a glance over his shoulder to check that they were obscured from street view by the high brick wall surrounding the house, then pressed a kiss to Vincent’s cheek.

Vincent turned his head at the last second and leaned into the kiss so that Chris’s lips met his. Chris started to pull away, because they might have the illusion of privacy, but he’d learned by experience that there was no such thing as too much caution where public affection was concerned, but Vincent pressed a hand to his hip to hold him tight.

Before Chris could speak, to tell Vincent that as much as he loved kissing him, this was neither the time nor the place, the front door slid open with a soft ‘snick’.

“You…probably shouldn’t just stand there making out on the front porch,” Toby said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, laced with that small hint of disapproval he always reserved for matters concerning Chris and Vincent.

Chris jerked backwards so hard that Vincent had to throw out an arm to make sure he didn’t topple off the front stoop. “I…we…it’s not like that.”

Toby didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows and gave the slightest flick of his head before sliding the door open all the way and stepping back into the house.

They entered a long, narrow hallway where Chris toed off his shoes then hung his jacket on one of the hooks beside the door. His hook, as Jan liked to refer to it; Chris, Mousa, and Toby all having as much of a place here as Jan and Sophie and the kids, in many respects. The Eredivisie contingent—sans Vincent, of course—all settled down within a few minutes drive of one another, coming and going in each other’s lives as they pleased.

Vincent bent to take off his own shoes, then peeled off his jacket, but held it in his hands, looking unsure of where it should go. Chris lifted it out of his arms and hung it atop his on the hook.

“Come,” he said, once again holding out his hand for Vincent. “Everyone’s inside, I’m sure.”

Vincent trailed behind, palm hot and moist against Chris’s, as Chris led the way through the wide living room. Pale wooden floorboards slick beneath his feet, although most of the room was covered in a thick woolen rug—shades of grey accented with deep red tones. The walls and skirting boards all painted a crisp white. Everything cheerful and open and bright.

On the far side of the room, a fire blazed in the small fireplace, filling the space with cozy warmth. A Christmas tree stood in the corner near the window, strung with white lights and red bows. Silver and red ornaments glinted in the light.

“ _Komen jullie binnen_!” A woman’s voice called from the kitchen. Jan’s wife, Sophie. “ _We zijn hier_.”

Chris skirted around the sofa, and pulled Vincent towards the kitchen where Jan was bent over the counter arranging something Chris couldn’t make out onto a tray.

“What time is this, then?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

“Sorry,” Chris said, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “We got a bit…sidetracked.”

“Mmm hmm.” That was Toby, now standing beside the kitchen table, surrounded by a pile of light strings and garlands and bows and cut out paper snowflakes.

“Arts and crafts time, Toby?” Chris gave a snort of a laugh at the sight, and Toby flashed him a look.

“It’s Christmas, Christian, don’t be an asshole.”

Sophie, her dark hair loose and curling around her face, smiled at Chris, then stepped past him and kissed Vincent on the cheek in the Dutch fashion—right, then left, then right—her right arm cradling her three-month-old baby against her side. “Vincent, hello. Sorry I can’t stay, I was just on my way upstairs, but we’ll catch up later. You look well. It is good to see you. I didn’t know you’d be in town.”

“Yes,” Vincent said, stepping back and staring down at the white stone of the kitchen floor, “I didn’t—”

“It was very last minute.” Chris moved to Vincent’s side and slid a hand around his waist. “I didn’t know he was coming either. My Christmas surprise.” He flashed Vincent a smile from beneath lowered eyelashes.

“I hope you two aren’t just going to stand there groping and flirting all afternoon.” Toby said.

“You’re the one that made me show up three hours early. I could still be tucked up in the warmth of my bed doing whatever I want in the privacy of my own home,” Chris replied.

“That doesn’t mean you need to come over here and do it instead.”

“Boys,” Mousa’s warning tone sounded from around the corner a second before he appeared on the other side of the kitchen. “Toby, are you helping with this decorating or not?’

Toby waved a hand at the pile in front of him. “I’m getting this all untangled.”

“Yeah, so I can be the one climbing all over the house tacking it up.”

“I’m injured.”

“Like the rest of us aren’t.” Mousa turned towards Vincent. “Good to see you, Vince. How are things?”

Vincent shrugged, keeping his gaze focused on the floor. “They…are. The league is really physical, like the Eredivisie, so, it’s good, and Istanbul is nice. The food is amazing.”

“We’re going to visit on holiday sometime. You lot should join us.” Chris cut in, and Vincent smiled over at him.

Across the room, Toby gave a small snort, but he said nothing.

Silence fell over the room for a minute until Jan looked up from his platter. “ _Christiaan_ , come help me with this.”

Chris peeled himself away from Vincent and joined Jan at the counter. “What do you need me to do?”

He leaned around Jan and snatched two slices of cheese and a handful of crackers off the platter.

Jan slapped at his hand. “You’re ruining my art.”

“How hard can it be to put cheese and crackers on a tray?”

“I have no idea,” Toby said. “But he’s been over there working on it all morning.”

“Says the man who still hasn’t managed to hang up a single decoration,” Jan said.

“Why do I have to hang everything? I spent three hours yesterday trying to stop two toddlers from breaking all your ornaments and the reward I get is ‘Toby strain your injured hamstring by climbing on this chair a billion times while I stand here and arrange cheese slices’.”

“By you hanging everything I assume you mean me,” Mousa said.

“You’re doing great work. I’d hate to intrude.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll hang them,” Vincent said, taking a step towards Mousa. “Where does all that go?”

“You’re injured too, though. Probably more than Toby.” Chris shoved off the counter, reaching behind himself to swipe another piece of cheese off Jan’s tray, which earned him a shout from Jan.

“ _Christiaan_. Stop eating it all. When I said come help me, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“I’m hungry. I didn’t really have much for breakfast and now it’s past lunch." 

“Whose fault is that, then?” Toby asked, his voice sharp.

Chris ignored him. For one thing, Toby wasn’t wrong. If he and Vincent had been able to pry themselves away from one another for more than a few minutes at a time, he’d probably have been able to at least piece together something resembling a meal from what was left of the salad pots.

“It’s technically my food, anyway. I bought it all.” He leaned over the counter and started rifling through the grocery bags until he found an unopened box of crackers. Not exactly his approved pre-match meal plan, but he figured some food had to be better than eating nothing. He slid a handful of the crackers out of the box and handed half of them to Vincent who took them with a grateful smile.

“That doesn’t mean you can eat it all before everyone gets here,” Jan said.

“Fine. I’ll go help Mousa with the decorations.” Chris shoved off the counter and headed towards Toby, who was tugging at a string of lights that had wound itself into knots.

“I thought Vincent was working on that,” Jan said.

“I don’t care who helps as long as someone else does something,” Mousa said, stepping back into the kitchen and snagging another garland from Toby’s pile.

“We can work on it together,” Chris said. He reached up to settle a hand between Vincent’s shoulder blades, then slid it down along the length of his spine until it settled at the small of Vincent’s back. Vincent’s body gave a little shiver beneath the touch.

This close, Vincent smelled of citrus and mint—Chris’s smell painted across his skin. He leaned in closer, breathing in the scents.

“You smell good,” he said, voice low, barely above a whisper.

“I smell like you.”

“Well…that explains why I like it.”

Vincent let out a breathless laugh and pulled Chris into a hug, wrapping him in soft warmth. “ _Dumkop_.”

“ _Je houdt van me_.” Chris said with a smile, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to Vincent’s lips.

Vincent shook his head. “I really do.”

Toby made a low noise of disgust and shoved away from the counter. “You two finish with this. I’m…going to find something to do upstairs.”

Chris stared after him as he stomped off towards the stairwell. He should probably go after him and apologise for winding him up.

Toby had his best interests in mind, Chris knew. He’d been the one to sit with Chris night after night, helping him gather up the pieces of his broken life and start putting them back together again, even though he’d been the one to tell Chris not to get involved in the first place. He’d been Chris’s friend and confidant through so many years of his life, from their years at Ajax—Chris a wide-eyed seventeen-year old looking to Toby, only a few years his senior for guidance—through Chris’s ill-advised relationship with the effervescent and oh so charming Daley Blind—one more thing in a long string of situations Toby had been right about—and now to their on and off-field partnership at Spurs.

Chris knew that, generally, Toby had the way of these things. He came off as laid-back to the point of cold and uncaring much of the time, but beneath it all he was sensitive and perceptive, always ready with a word of caution or advice whether you wanted it or not. Most of the time, it ended up being correct, Toby able to foresee the outcome of a situation before it even started to unfold.

When it came to Chris’s relationship with Vincent, well, Toby hadn’t been completely right about how things would turn out, not really, although Chris wished he’d been a bit more wrong. Still, that didn’t give him the right to step in. To intervene on his behalf where he wasn’t wanted and didn’t know what he was talking about, for once.

He and Vincent were both adults who could make their own choices, whatever Toby had to say about it.

“I bet we can get all of these untangled in half the time it took Toby to do one,” he said to Vincent with a grin, and they each grabbed a strand of lights and set to work.


	8. Chapter 8

“Last one,” Chris said, stepping lightly to the floor from the chair he was balanced atop. 

He and Vincent had been hard at work for an hour decorating the wide, open living room on the first floor of Jan’s house. The entire room had been draped in garlands with festive bows and paper snowflakes and lit with strings of soft white light, a perfect refuge against the chill of the winter outside.

At the top of the stairs, Chris pulled Vincent in close and pressed one more kiss to his lips. Their teammates had started arriving, judging from the low buzz of voices drifting upstairs, and Chris knew this would be the last quiet moment they’d be able to steel until they arrived home at the end of the night. Vincent nipped at his bottom lip and Chris pressed him against the wall beside the stairwell. Hands everywhere, skimming along Vincent’s body. Vincent’s own hands tracing up and down his spine. Their hearts beating against one another as Vincent leaned in and deepened the kiss.

Vincent laughed against Chris’s mouth, pulling back to catch his breath.

“This is the whole reason we haven’t managed to eat more than some fruit and a handful of crackers a piece all day, you know.”

Chris returned his laugh, leaning in to press his forehead against Vincent’s, their noses sloping together. “Point. We should probably…”

He dragged himself backwards and out of Vincent’s grasp. Even if his stomach hadn’t been screaming in protest, it wouldn’t do for any of their teammates to head upstairs for a party only to be be greeted by the sight of Chris and Vincent pressed against one another panting and groping. No one needed that kind of Christmas surprise.

Chris slid one hand down Vincent’s spine as they headed down the narrow staircase, taking a moment to deliver a light slap to Vincent’s arse before they turned the corner into full view of the ground floor. Vincent let out a small shout as they tripped down the last few stairs, both of them red-faced and giggling.

“Vincent!” Michel’s cry was cheerful as Chris and Vincent rounded the corner towards the living room.

“Michel!  _Hallo! Hoe gaat het met je_?”

“I should ask you that,” Michel said. He stepped forward and wrapped Vincent in a bear hug, the two chattering in a rapid-fire stream of Dutch. Beside him, his wife Daisy busied herself with their young son. “I hear you’ve taken the Süper Lig by storm.”

Vincent raised his eyebrows and didn’t bother to hold in his laugh. “I’m not sure what news sources you’re finding, but I wouldn’t give them much notice if that’s what they’re saying. I do enjoy it though. The city is beautiful and the league is more my style. Physical, like the Eredivisie, although it’s easier to find some space. It’s been a good adventure.”

Michel draped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him towards a waiting group of teammates. Vincent flashed a look back over his shoulder and Chris smiled and waved him on. “Go ahead, Vincent. I’m going to get some food.”

Vincent gave him a thumbs up. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. Save me a space.”

Chris left Vincent to his conversation and made his way towards the kitchen, the scents of lemon and garlic and spices making his stomach growl audibly. He stopped to greet a few of his teammates along the way—Davinson wrapping him in a hug and wishing him a Happy Christmas; Fernando throwing an arm around his shoulder as the two walked into the kitchen together.

“Chris,” Fernando said, blue eyes sparkling as he fixed Chris with his wide, easy smile. “It is good to see you, my friend. A happy Christmas to you.”

“Same to you. Are you enjoying your Christmas in London.”

“Ehhh, I will never be glad for these Christmas matches and spending holidays away from family. Training in the cold rain instead of laying in the sun is no way to spend the day, I think.”

“You’re not wrong. But it is what it is, yes. We get through it and hopefully we can gain some ground in the league and come out the other side mostly together.”

“ _Salud_ to that, my friend.” Fernando raised his empty hand in a mock cheers and clapped Chris on the shoulder before making his way towards Jan’s long dining room.

Chris swung into the kitchen, surveying the platters of food laid out across the counters: colourful vegetable salads with grilled steak and strawberries, bowls of quinoa seasoned with lemon juice and garlic, a warming dish holding salmon and chicken breasts in white wine sauce, and, alongside all of that, Jan’s meticulously arranged trays of various cheeses and whole grain crackers.

Chris lifted a gold-rimmed plate from the stack beside the salad bowl and began filling it with a bit of everything. He was just lifting a piece of chicken onto his plate when a shadow blocked out a patch of the warm golden light that filled the room.

“I’m just saying, it might have been worth a mention at least.” Jan’s voice, laced with an uncharacteristic annoyance.

Toby held both hands in the air in an attempt to placate his friend. “It was all very last minute.”

“Apparently everything is these days.”

“Christmas is no time for arguments.” Chris skirted around the pair to grab some cutlery off the tray on the counter, then leaned against the far wall. He tried to balance his plate in one hand so he could pick at his salad with the other, but he nearly ended up dropping the entire thing, so he gave up.

“It’s also no time to invite people to someone else’s house without mentioning you’re doing it,” Jan said.

Chris narrowed his eyes at the pair. “Is this about Vincent? Because I can—”

Jan cut him off with a wave. “No. It’s about Toby forgetting to mention that he felt bad about his Southampton mates spending Christmas in a London hotel and invited them to, how did you put it, Toby? ‘Feel free to drop by.’ and ‘bring any of the lads you’d like’. As if there aren’t enough people here already.”

Toby shrugged and snagged a bottle of water out of the ice bucket cooling beside the refrigerator. “Honestly, I didn’t think they’d take me up on it. It’s not as though the whole team is here or anything. What’s another handful of people amidst this crowd?”

“It’s still my house. I know you think you live here, but you don’t.”

“It’s not as though I’m the only one who just turned up with people who weren’t on the guest list,” Toby said, turning an eye towards Chris. “Where is Vincent anyway? I don’t think I’ve see you two more than a few centimetres apart since you arrived.”

“Talking to Michel,” Chris said. He turned to Jan. “I am sorry. About asking Vincent along. I didn’t think, but you’re right. I should have checked.”

“ _You_ are fine,” Jan said. “Vincent goes where you go. We all know that by now.”

Chris fought to keep the soft smile from his face, but he definitely lost that battle and found himself grinning like an idiot at the thought of his friend’s blatant acceptance of his situation with Vincent.

“I can ask them to go, if that’s what you want,” Toby said. “I was just trying to help They are my friends, whether they play on the opposing team or not.”

Jan let out a long-suffering sigh, but shook his head. “Then I’ll be the rude host who invited people and rescinded the offer. No. You’re right, a few more people won’t matter. It just might have been nice to be warned before getting bombarded in my entryway. Anyone else you invited and forgot to tell me about.”

“Eden may stop by, but Mousa said you knew about that.”

“Yes. Because Mousa is the sort of friend who informs someone of things like that.”

The two trailed out of the kitchen and back towards the front entry, still arguing like a couple who had been married for the better part of their lives.

Plate threatening to spill over at the slightest jostle, Chris made his way through the press of people starting to crowd into the kitchen and slid into an empty seat beside Ben at Jan’s long dining room table.

“Ben. Happy Christmas. Did your family make it down for the day?

“Hmmm, oh, yes? They’re having Christmas dinner with friends, I’ll meet up with them in a while. You’re alright, mate?”

“Never better, why?”

“Last night when I left you were a bit…”

“Oh, that,” Chris waved his hand dismissively. “A…misunderstanding. Of sorts. Nothing to worry about, all is good.”

“Okay,” Ben said turning back to his own plate of food, although he didn’t look convinced.

  
  


Chris sat at the table finishing his meal, still chatting with Ben as their teammates, along with wives, partners, and children trickled in and out. A low buzz of conversation filled the air and snatches of music floated out of the stereo system.

Vincent was nowhere in sight. Chris had expected him to make his hellos and join Chris at the table, but Chris had been here eating and talking for the better part of an hour and Vincent still hadn’t appeared.

He tossed another glance over his shoulder, then grabbed his plate and shoved back from the table. “Sorry to rush off,” he said to Ben. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure. Happy Christmas.”

“Right. Happy Christmas.”

He made his way towards the kitchen where he dropped his plate in the indicated bin, grabbed two bottles of water, and headed out to look for Vincent.

Chris checked the front room first, expecting to find Vincent still deep in conversation with Michel and in need of a rescue. Not that Chris was adept at navigating the particulars of leaving one conversation in favour of another, but when Vincent got in with the Dutch boys he often got caught up for hours, and with Michel being his international senior, he tended to take extra care not to offend by dashing off. A scan of the room, however, yielded no sign of Vincent or Michel.

He backtracked towards the stairs to the first floor where most of the party would be taking place. The ground floor was set up or reception and food with a spread of board games laid out in the den, because you couldn’t have a party at Jan’s house without some level of board game challenge breaking out, planned or otherwise.

“Chris.” Toby’s voice and Chris stopped, one foot on the bottom stair.

“Toby. Have you seen Vincent?”

“If you don’t know where he is, I certainly don’t. You’re the one that’s practically attached to him.”

Chris couldn’t do this, not today. He knew how Toby felt about Vincent, and maybe he was right, but Chris was tired of the offhand remarks and the creeping disapproval that edged Toby’s words whenever he spoke about Vincent. Toby was one of Chris’s best friends, had been for years, but this thing with Vincent wasn’t going away, no matter how badly Toby wanted it to.

“Can we not…look. I know how you feel. We’ve been over it, whatever. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not going to force you into giving me your support in this, but…can we agree to just…not speak about Vincent?”

Chris took a deep breath and closed his eyes, forcing down all the emotions that threatened to rise to the surface and pressing himself into a practiced calm. “You’re one of my best friends. Have been for a good long while. I respect your opinions, I do, but on this…I just can’t.”

Toby stared at him for long moments. Chris knew him well enough to understand that he was rolling over the scenario in his head. This thing with Vincent had hung between them for most of a year now, and though they’d been able to maintain their friendship, they’d both felt the tension pulling at it from both sides. Now, Chris was asking Toby to look the other way. To come in and ignore one of the biggest parts of his life, and that was putting a lot on an already tenuous situation.

Still, their friendship could take a bit of distance. It couldn’t take any more of this back and forth as they each fought for their ideals.

“Okay,” Toby said, at last. “If that’s what you need.”

He shook his head, visibly dragging himself out of his thoughts, his eyes coming back to focus and his jaw slackening a bit. “Good. Can you help me bring in another flat of water from the garage. We’re almost out and I’m honestly not sure I can lift it all right now.”

And just like that, everything slid back into place. Friend helping a friend with a mundane task. Regroup and move forward with life as though nothing had come between them, and Chris appreciated Toby for that.

“Right,” Chris said, straightening up and following Toby towards the garage. “How many do we need?”

  
  
  
  


“Ben, have you seen Vincent?”

Restocking of water completed, Chris had resumed his search. Ben still sat at the dining room table, now deep in conversation with Vic and, of all people, Maya Yoshida. And oh, right, Toby had invited some of the Southampton lads to the party. Around them, the noise had grown more subdued as more people made their way upstairs or found the games in the den.

“Vincent? No. I…” Ben gave a little tilt of his head. “I didn’t know he was in town.”

“Yes,” Chris said. “Since…well. It was last minute.”

“Ahh. I see,” Ben said, his eyes narrowing a bit before sharpening into their usual intelligent gaze. “Well. That’s…nice then. When you see him give him my hellos.”

“He’ll be around all week. You can see him at the match tomorrow, I’m sure. Or come by my house. I…offered to put him up for the week so he could be closer to friends.”

Ben flashed him the barest hint of a smile. “Did you? That’s kind of you. An extra houseguest must be a bit of a burden, what with all the extra matches and training.”

“I don’t mind. It’s a big house. Seriously, come by and say hello sometime.”

“I’ll see about it.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

Chris turned with a wave over his shoulder and made his way towards the stairs. He’d covered every square metre of the ground floor by this point and unless he and Vincent were accidentally re-enacting one of those slapstick comedy routines where people kept popping in and out of random doors but never managed to catch one another, he was convinced Vincent had to be upstairs.

He snaked his way through the kitchen, pausing long enough to fill a bowl with salad, quinoa, and a piece of salmon and tuck two bottles of water under his arm before making his way to the first floor.

The room was buzzing with people, teammates and their families clustered in small groups against round tables that had been rented for the occasion. Each draped in a red or green tablecloth with artfully arranged greenery in the centres. Everything cast in a dim light by the wall sconces and the strings of lights Chris and Vincent had spent the afternoon hanging.

Long tables laden with trays of fruits and vegetables, along with more of Jan’s cheese and cracker platters, lined the room. In the far corner, beside the door to the balcony, a small drinks station had been set up, boasting all manner of fruit juices, flavoured waters, assorted bottles of wine and other alcohols, and a large ice bucket stuffed with bottles of beer.

Vincent was leaned against one of the tables near the balcony, surrounded by his own small group. Coco had one arm wrapped around Vincent’s shoulders and Vincent, in return, had his arm slung around Coco’s waist. As Chris approached, Vincent threw his head back and let out a full throated laugh, his face quirking into a wide grin that made his dimples wink at the corners of his mouth. His hair shown with reds and golds beneath the soft glow of the lights. He looked relaxed and happy, surrounded by friends and warmth, and Chris couldn’t help but smile.

“ _Christiaan_!”

Chris didn’t think it was possible for Vincent’s smile to get any wider, but Vincent proved him wrong, his dimples deepening with the movement.

“Ah, Chris. My friend. You’re just in time,” Coco said, waving him over.

Chris crossed the room towards the crowd of happy, smiling boys clustered around the table. Vincent and Coco had been joined by Gazza and Wesley Hoedt, all of them holding glasses with more fruit slices jammed onto the rim than should be technically possible. “Just in time for what? Vincent have you eaten yet?”

Vincent gave a slow, deliberate nod, his gaze distant and unfocused, as he gestured to a plate of scattered greens and strawberries that sat on the table in front of him. “Yes, a bit. But I keep getting distracted. Here.” He held out the glass in his hand which was full of a dark red liquid.

Chris sniffed at it and raised his eyebrows at Coco. It smelled of an odd mixture of fruit and some kind of herbal cough medicine. “What is this?”

“Ehhh,” Coco said with a wave of his hand, “Cranberry juice with some _Amargo Obrero_ and a little gin. It’s nothing. Easy work. It’s good, no?” He looked at Vincent who gave another nod.

“That one is the best. We’ve perfected it.”

“This one?” Chris raised his eyebrows at Vincent and gave the glass one more sniff before taking a sip. It wasn’t…bad, per se. Fruity yet bitter with a vaguely medicinal back end from the gin. Still, Chris had long since learned that when Coco said ‘a little gin’ he meant at least half the glass full.

“Ah,” Chris said, setting down the bowl of salad and shoving one of his bottles of water at Vincent. “I brought you this.”

Vincent flashed him a grin and stared down at the bottle for a few seconds before registering what it was and twisting off the cap. “Where have you been?”

“Food. Then Toby. Then looking for you, mostly.”

“So sweet, my _Christiaan_.” Vincent said, unwinding himself from Coco and taking a faltering step before draping himself across Chris. His weight heavy against Chris’s shoulders, Vincent’s cheeks flushed with alcohol and the warmth of the house. His body a banked furnace at Chris’s side.

Chris took a furtive glance around the room to see how big the audience for this little show might be, but most of the room’s occupants were deep in their various conversations.

“Hey there,” Chris said, bending his knees slightly to take the full brunt of Vincent’s weight. “How many of these did it take before you got it right?”

Vincent screwed up his face for a moment. “Three?”

“Two and a half,” Wesley said, sounding not all that much more sober than Vincent, which was an interesting choice for someone who had a match in less than a day. “We shared in the first one.”

“The first was no good,” Coco said. “Too much bitters. Undrinkable, really. This one, however, is perfection. Shall I make you one.”

“No, thanks. I’ll finish this one.” Chris held up the half-full glass in his hand. “Does it need all this fruit?”

“Yes!” Vincent said. “It’s important. Festive and decorative and also good for you.”

“Okay,” Chris said with a shake of his head. He was glad Vincent was having a good time, but this wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned his evening going.

He pulled one of the orange slices off the glass and chewed on it. It wasn’t half bad, soaked in the bitter tang of the juice and the herbal gin.

“You should eat something.” Chris slid the bowl of food he’d put together in front of Vincent who obediently lifted a forkful of the salad to his mouth and chewed deliberately.

Chris pulled a wedge of pineapple off the glass to clear some space for his mouth, then took another sip of the drink. It really was good, once you got around all the fruit and past the initial tang of the gin.

“How is it that you’re the only one that never ends up drinking these things?” he asked Coco.

“It’s important to keep yourself sharp so you don’t get the mix wrong,” Coco said with a cheeky grin. Beside him, Gazza nodded in sage agreement.

“ _Christiaan_ ,” Vincent reached out to press a hand to Chris’s side. Chris nearly pulled back on instinct, but managed to stay put. Vincent was drunk enough that Chris would be able to write it off. His teammates were all too familiar with the effects of a night spent on the wrong side of Coco’s amateur mixology.

“Do you know Wes?” Vincent asked, shifting to Dutch, which earned him protests from Gaza and Coco.

“Not as well as you do,” Chris said, bringing the conversation back to English. He turned to Wesley and stuck out his hand. “Chris. Eriksen. Good to meet you.”

“Chris knows Daley,” Vincent said, and that was enough of that. He could explain away Vincent’s falling all over him at the party, but Chris definitely didn’t need him blurting out secrets about the past that best remained buried.

“Yes,” Chris said. “From Ajax. We were teammates along with Jan and Toby. Vincent are you done with that?”

Chris sucked in a breath, pulled a face, and downed what was left in his glass in one swallow. The gin burned through his esophagus, spreading warm through his chest and into his stomach. He would have preferred to take his time and savour the drink, perhaps top it off with a bit more juice to balance it out when Coco wasn’t looking, but the sooner he got Vincent downstairs and away from the crowd, the better.

“Come,” he said, setting the glass on the table and holding out one hand to Vincent. “We’re going downstairs for a bit. We’ll see you all later, yes?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Vincent said, moving his arm from where it rested on Chris’s hip so he could extract his phone from his back pocket. “Coco put an app on my phone for selfies.”

“You don’t need an app for selfies,” Wesley said.

Vincent made a rude gesture and muttered curses at him in barely audible Dutch, and Chris had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh. 

“I mean,” Vincent continued, jabbing at his screen with one long finger until he managed to unlock his phone. “It’s for Christmas. See?”

He held out his phone, screen displaying a view of the room behind Chris and the very corner of Chris’s shoulder.

“I don’t see anything. Just your screen.’

Vincent drew the phone back and frowned down at it for a moment before continuing to poke at the screen. After a few moments, Gazza took pity on him and lifted it from his grasp. “Let me do it.”

He clicked twice at the screen, then handed the phone back to Vincent who broke out into a wide grin.

“Mistletoe! See.” Vincent held the phone out towards Chris again. Chris took it, this time staring at a zoomed in view of his face under a cartoon graphic of a bunch of mistletoe.

“Vince…” Chris started to protest, but the words died on his lips at the sight of Vincent’s eager expression. He supposed as long as he didn’t let things get out of hand it wouldn’t do any harm. It was Christmas and they were among friends.

Vincent nestled himself against Chris, leaning in to press closer. Warm and solid against his side, heat pumping between them. Chris slung one arm around Vincent’s back, just below his ribcage and tugged him a bit closer.

“Fine. One photo. Then we’re going downstairs and you’re going to eat some proper dinner and drink at least a litre of water.”

He slid in to press a chaste kiss against Vincent’s cheek, ready to pull away when Vincent inevitably turned his head. Vincent, however, made no move, just staring into his phone, his finger hovering over the screen.

“Do you need me to take it?” Chris asked, and Vincent shook his head.

“No. I can do it.”

“Vince. Give it to me.”

“I’ll do it,” Coco swooped in and tugged the phone out of Vincent’s grasp and lined up the shot. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to be, I suppose,” Chris said.

Beside him, Vincent let out a whine of protest and Chris tugged him closer. “Hush, _liefje_ ,” he whispered under his breath in Dutch. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

He regretted the words the moment he said them.

Vincent, still surprisingly agile for someone who was leaning half his mass onto Chris’s shoulders, whirled around and pressed his mouth against Chris’s, hot and wet and tasting of fruit and gin with a hint of the lemon and garlic from his salad. Chris instinctively slid into the kiss for a second before his eyes flew open and he pulled back, not letting himself get drawn in, not here.

Coco let out a low whistle and Chris yanked away from Vincent, his cheeks burning hot as he notice at least three sets of eyes fixed on them.

“Yeah, Vinny,” Wesley said, clapping his hands together, his face fixed in a sly grin.

Beside Chris, Vincent let out a little giggle of a laugh that Chris probably would have found charming and irresistible had they not been in a room full of people.

“Did you get your picture then, Coco?” Chris asked, forcing a hint of annoyance and exasperation into his tone. Vincent would understand. Probably. Or at least he would later after he’d sobered up a bit and realised what he’d done.

“Absolutely,” Coco said with a wide grin. “A perfect moment, I think.”

Vincent held out his hand for the phone, but Chris was faster even when Vincent hadn’t been drinking, and he swooped in to intercept. He swiped at the screen until the photo appeared, he and Vincent perfectly centred between the cartoon mistletoe, his arm slung around Vincent’s waist, Vincent’s arm around his shoulders. Their bodies slid together as though they’d been designed that way—fitting around one another’s curves and angles on instinct the moment they came near one another.

Press of Vincent’s mouth against Chris’s, their eyelids fluttered shut, and Chris couldn’t deny the look of pure bliss that crossed both their faces in the moment.

  
  
  


Downstairs, they sat side-by-side at Jan’s dining room table. Vincent, now halfway through his third bottle of water, sat quietly chewing at the quinoa and chicken that Chris had shoved in front of him. The two were alone at the table, the party winding down as those with younger children headed home for the evening and the rest of the guests dispersed throughout the house. Noisy shouts of triumph and groans of defeat drifted out from the den, the board game circle still in full swing.

“I’m sorry, Chris.” Vincent said, voice just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the party. His eyes now heavy-lidded, the alcohol in his system mingling with food and dragging him towards sleep.

“About what?” Chris asked.

“What do you mean, about what? Earlier. I was…what I did…”

Chris huffed out a breath of a laugh and shook his head at Vincent. “We’re…well… It’s fine, really. Everyone has that one colleague who gets embarrassingly drunk at the office Christmas do, right?”

“Ha,” Vincent said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. “As if my reputation at Spurs wasn’t bad enough.”

“You’re fine, I think. Anyway, it is a nice photo. Maybe I should print that out and hang it in your room instead.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I can send it to you if you’d like.”

“I would. Toby hid away all the photos of you and I after you left. It’s time I dug them out and put them back on the shelves where they belong. I can add this one to the collection.”

Vincent’s eyes went wide for a moment, dark pupils rimmed with slivers of brown, reflecting the gold of the lights overhead. He shifted in his chair, leaning in until his thigh radiated heat against Chris’s own.

“What did I do to deserve you, Chris? I’m such a mess and you’re…well.”

Chris snuck a glance around the room to make sure they weren’t being watched too closely, then slid a hand onto Vincent’s knee under the table. “You. Are perfect. And I love you. Now, shall we go home? I believe I promised to make some things up to you later.”


	9. Chapter 9

Vincent woke up with the sun in his eyes, his entire body feeling wrung out. His eyes burned and his mouth tasted like he’d been licking dirt. He threw an arm across his face with a groan and slid further into the blankets to ward off the offending brightness.

The heavy duvet filtered out the worst of the light, and he took a few moments to blink himself awake. Christian’s bed, or, perhaps their bed now, although he shouldn’t let himself follow that train of thought too far down the tracks. Unless some miracle happened in the next month, this was his home in theory only. Still, the mere idea that Christian had finally decided to carve out a more permanent place for Vincent in his life was enough for now.

Beside him, the bed was empty, the space already cool. Right. Christian had an early match today. He’d probably slipped out hours ago and left Vincent to his sleep. He rolled towards the far side of the bed and popped his head far enough out of the blankets to read the clock on Christian’s bedside table. Half nine.

A wince at the cold of the room on his bare skin when he slid from the bed, and he shoved into the first clothes he could liberate from his luggage. He’d crashed into sleep without showering the night before and his entire body felt stiff and sticky.

He found Christian in the kitchen, frowning down at the Turkish coffee pot Vincent had given him. When Vincent slipped into the room, Christian glanced up, his eyes bright. “You’re supposed to still be in bed. I was going to surprise you.”

Vincent’s voice, when he spoke came out sandpaper rough, scraping at the raw edges of his throat. “I’ll gladly crawl back in and never leave again if you can somehow manage to turn off the sun.”

Christian shook his head, then leaned in to press a kiss to Vincent’s forehead, his lips cool and dry against Vincent’s skin. “You know better than to drink anything Coco is making, nevermind more than one of them.”

All Vincent could manage in response was a low groan. Christian was right, of course. Vincent had let himself get caught up in the party atmosphere and the warmth and good cheer of a night amongst friends. Wes’s presence hadn’t helped matters. He was notorious for convincing Vincent to do something he’d regret in the morning, the two of them egging one another on until another of their teammates had to intervene before things got really out of hand.

“Here,” Christian said, sliding a cup of coffee onto the kitchen island. “I have no idea what I’m doing with this thing. I had to watch a video on YouTube. Let me know if it’s terrible and I’ll make you something else.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Honestly at this point all that matters to me is that it’s coffee.”

“Well, it is that. Also, I have a surprise.”

Christian leaned into the refrigerator and pulled out a snap-together plastic container of chocolate cake. He pulled at the closure for a bit, the plastic crinkling and crunching under his fingers until it finally gave way with a snap.

“Here,” Christian set the container down. “It was supposed to go differently, me putting it all on a tray and bringing it upstairs to surprise you with, but…”

“You got me cake? When did you have time for that?”

“I ran out for it this morning. You’re off training for the better part of a month. I figured one piece of cake probably wouldn’t hurt anything.”

“This,” Vincent said, taking a sip of his coffee, which was remarkably well made considering Christian had no idea what he was doing. “Is delightful.”

Christian handed him a fork and he dug into the cake. Rich chocolate, small, but dense, burst of sugar sweetness with a hint of the bitter aftertones of true, dark chocolate exploding on his tongue. He let out a small groan of pleasure.

“Did I say perfectly lovely. I meant the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten. Where did you get this, from the Tesco?”

“Not even. I drove all the way to Marks and Spencer for you. Only the best.”

“It’s delicious.” Vincent shoved another generous forkful in his mouth and chewed slowly, savouring the taste for as long as possible.

“Don’t eat all of that,” Christian said, tone full of affection. “You’ll make yourself ill and you won’t be able to watch the match later. And speaking of. I’ve left your name at the window, although you’re technically a Spurs player so it was a bit unnecessary, strictly speaking. You can catch a ride in with Shani and Soph later or I can see if one of the lads will pick me up and you can take my car. I wouldn’t recommend the Tube today.”

“I’ll ride in later,” Vincent said. He hadn’t gotten around to catching up with the girls last night anyway; a few hours in London traffic would give them all plenty of time.

“Ha,” Christian slipped in beside Vincent, their hips touching, Christian’s body warm in the cool of the house. “Keep this up and we’ll have to change the terminology to Wives and Partners. You can join the matchday carpool.”

Vincent leaned over and pulled Christian into a kiss, chasing the taste of mint from his toothpaste across his tongue.

Christian kissed him back, slow and sweet, deepening the angle and pressing into him before pulling away, Vincent already missing his warmth.

“I have to go,” Christian said. “I’ll see you after the match.”

He pressed one more kiss to Vincent’s mouth before making his way across the kitchen to the garage. He paused, leaning against the doorway, eyes scanning Vincent head to toe, face fixed in a grin. “Merry Christmas, Vincent. Here’s to many more.”


End file.
